


Logic

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Cutting, Depression, F/M, Gore, Graphic Description, Humor, Language, M/M, Manipulation, Multi, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-07-22 18:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7449436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You have depression. You do, and that's okay."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Happiness is...

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer(s): I own neither the Avengers nor the Spider-Man franchise! It started as a dramatic monologue but spiraled out of control. To be honest, I never intended it to get this long (I never intend anything to be long) because I'm afraid I won't be able to finish it once I start...BUT HERE I AM. Editing is a chore, so who knows when I'll update...but I'll try my best! I promise! (Please love me ;-;)

Peter never dreamed that a single phrase would have so much of an effect on him. There was no bucket of ice cold water that doused him the moment he understood his situation; rather, time slowed. He could hear his heartbeat thumping pathetically against a ribcage that seemed to constrict his chest. Tighter, tighter...and breathing became a little harder. Cotton replaced his mind. Was he suffocating?

Steve didn't notice; it must not have been as bad as it felt.  
"You have depression. You do, and that's okay. It's a phase: everyone's gone through it. Hell, I had it for two years." Peter wondered if Steve took his silence for disbelief. It wasn't: Peter understood. He understood and he was grateful that someone had finally said it because he couldn't have figured it out himself.

Logically, he should have known. All the signs were there. Thinking back, everything was so _obvious_ ; yet, hearing it himself, having it told to him so bluntly, solidified it.  
It wasn't a solution, but it was a start.  


**Happiness is...**  
Peter used to live in a small town with his parents before he moved (because they had died quite horrifically, hadn't they?). He spent most of the first thirteen years of his life in a bedroom, shoved to the end of a hall, on the second floor of a white house. Since his town was so small, it had a single building to shove nine grades in: kindergarten to eighth grade. Frankly, he hated it.

He hated being stuck with the same kids, the same adults... hell, even the same bus driver. He hated the whole goddamn town with such a passion that when he learned that his seventh grade math teacher was ill from cancer and that his eighth grade science teacher was struck down by a heart attack, he wasn't sad at all. The math teacher, Mr. Pontrella, had hated children and stated that Peter didn't try hard enough in math, forcing him to double up on math (Geometry and Honors Algebra 2) just to keep Aunt May and Uncle Ben satisfied. The science teacher, Mr. Links, did the scientific field no justice since he was such a poor teacher. However, the brunet _did_ put on a face when he learned of it. He knew how because Peter Parker was a liar.

All he had to do was pinch his eyebrows together and gasped. Insert silence into every couple words. Articulate the obvious to convey a sorrow he didn't feel.

"Mr. Links is...He's dead?" Peter had whispered hesitantly, the fantastic actor he was. "My God...he was my science teacher in the eighth grade!" Aunt May absorbed his reaction like a sponge and he was apathetic.

"Oh no, Mr. Pontrella has cancer? That's awful! Is he alright?" Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.  
A dark part of him, which only he knew because he didn't trust anyone else, wished that those women that worked at the front office were dead, too. And then, trapped in the confines of his expansive mind as he traveled farther back into his memory, he began wishing that his old smartass of a gym teacher, Mr. D, had died with everyone else.

Health wasn't taken as seriously; rather, it _still_ isn't taken seriously. Since no other teacher had been as ecstatic about taking up a position that required the attention of rowdy, prepubescent children, Mr. D had taken the mantle like some sort of messiah. Peter hated him so much but, logically, he knew he shouldn't. Dark emotions are detrimental to mental health, but he couldn't help it. He wondered if he even cared enough to change.

Was it the seventh grade? The sixth? Peter didn't remember. He didn't want to remember. All the grades were blurred together anyway. He had to learn "health": drugs, pregnancies, the female reproductive system. For whatever reason, it was _also_ in the curriculum to make students jot down their saddest memories in the short twelve or so years they had lived. And Peter, poor stupid Peter, wrote too much. He became too absorbed with his paper, lost in his memories until the undersized yellow classroom reduced to nothing. The bookcases behind him disappeared, as did the dirty windows and the broken shards of sunlight that peeked past closed curtains. The students might as well have been dead. All that existed was a piece of paper, cheap and a bit gray for whatever reason, and a dull pencil; he didn't even hear the accompanying discordant harmony of scratching pencils.

He trusted that liar of a teacher and he learned from it. A liar hates to be lied to, and Peter realized that he never wanted to be betrayed again, no matter how small or "for his own good" it would be.

"These are personal pieces, so I probably won't even read them," the teacher had said jokingly, seating his large, muscular body behind a bulky Apple computer. "It's in the curriculum. Yeah, go wild. I won't report you- I mean, I can't. Since this is all anonymous." _Liar._

Peter was reported. That goddamn adult had so much time on his hands that he looked through all the student handwritings with the help of the boy's English teacher, Mrs. Sullivan. Mr. D was hailed a hero.

Logically, Peter understood why. He had written about stress and troubles (about suicide and freedom). Logically, he understood why he was reported. He had no one to blame but himself; hell, maybe he _did_ blame himself the most. Maybe, out of all the teachers he cursed for dead, _he_ wanted to die. A couple years later, in high school, he realized that he did.

During lunch, a couple days after handing in the paper that doomed him, the youth was chatting animatedly with his friends. The lunchroom had been recently renovated, clean with light blue floors and a lofty ceiling. There were rows of long wooden tables every couple feet, and two vending machines decorated the back. Strict teachers, assigned with lunch duty to keep the children contained (save for those that asked to go to the restroom), strode up and down the aisles to stop anyone from creating too much traffic. Nobody liked wandering children.

The lunch ladies who usually stood at the front to check off names and hand out white paper bags were instead selling two-dollar pizza slices and one-dollar pairs of chocolate-chip cookies in transparent baggies. Lemonade bottles were set up on a table to the side.

It was on a Friday, wasn't it? Since Fridays were pizza days. (Peter hated that he could still remember.)

That Friday had been a very special Friday because, at night, the old lunchroom that had been abandoned to the hands of the younger children (for the morning roll-call, he supposed) would be transformed into the dwelling of a social event. Thinking back, it was silly: what would middle-schoolers need a social dance for? Nonetheless, Peter had been excited. He chattered away without a care in the world, supporting friends by agreeing, "Do it, Max! Ask Cathy to the dance!". Fool.

A teacher he had never seen before, a Chinese woman with a deep purple blouse and clicking black heels, asked for his attendance. Peter's friends all "oh-ed" and "ah-ed" and "You're in _trouble_ -ed". How right they were.

The boy walked through the blank hallways quietly, though the lady tried to make small talk. Peter took to feigning interest in the ridiculously-slim red lockers (reserved for the fourth graders). As an act of defiance, perhaps. They walked into a pale-yellow room behind front office, where he was seated on a comfortable, but ugly, purplish-brown chair with aged wooden handles. Peter sank into it, listening to the stern voice from the rooms further down the hall. Someone named Bernard was being chastised for "hacking" the SmartBoards and blasting "Black and Yellow" during class. The door creaked open, revealing a woman with frizzy brown hair as she entered the room. The door, once ajar, clicked shut and the room was doused with silence. At first, he acted polite: back straight, small smile, bright eyes. She asked questions ("How are you? Do you like school?") and he answered, well-mannered because that was how his parents raised him ("I'm good, how are you? Yes, I like school."). She, seated behind a great metal desk, opened a drawer that clearly needed some oiling (based on the way she struggled with it) and placed two sheets of paper on the desk. She placed them on the surface daintily, volte face from the way she dealt with the uncooperative drawer.

"Did you write this?" she had asked kindly, pursing her lips as if she was worried. But Peter knew, because he does the same things, that she didn't care. If he was in her position, he wouldn't have cared either. Her voice was so sweet it was bitter. They both knew that Peter had written it. Was it her plan to reduce his pride to nothing? To make him admit to a mistake that he _knew_ was his the moment she walked in? He remained quiet, though he felt his face redden from the rush of blood. He could hear his veins pumping furiously, and though his face was hot, his fingers ran cold and his heart practically stopped. "Peter."

"Yes," he had said primly, staring at his handwriting as if urging it to shift into someone else's. He then crossed his legs, leaned back, and narrowed his eyes. He saw this very pose just one day prior when his parents were watching a movie. The man on the screen, obviously a bad guy since he was dressed in all white and had sinister music playing, was droning on and on about his evil plan before Peter was ushered back to his room. Rated-R films. "Why?"

"Well, Peter," she replied, folding her hands together over her desk as she spoke, "I'm worried about you. Normal kids don't think about dying."

Normal kids? He grew defensive, hot anger brewing at the pit of his stomach, "Normal kids? I am normal. I just read something about suicide and grew curious." The gym teacher had asked him to write something dark, something personal, and this was his reward? For thinking outside the box? For outwardly pondering the meaning of existence and connecting it to his own issues at home? Ridiculous.

The lady didn't speak, but she jotted something down. Suicide. "Peter," she grew quiet, as if she was pondering something, but Peter's not _daft_ and he knew quite well that she was acting because all adults are actors. Peter _knows_. "Peter, I'm going to call your parents. For you."

And he panicked. His parents? Whatever for? For _this_? "Why?" he sat up again as he saw her manicured fingers reach for the phone. " _Why_?"

"It's for your own good," she repeated, tapping numbers in as her annoying red fingernails clacked on the keys. "I think you should talk to a professional." A professional?

"Don't," and then he remembered his manners as he repeated helplessly, his heart thrashing wildly against his chest, "Please don't. You don't need to call my parents. I won't do it again. I won't!" But she kept clicking away and tears began welling up behind his eyelids. "I like my life. I like it the way it is! Please don't call my parents."

"Sweetie, people who like their life don't cry," and she put the phone up to her ear to say, "Yes...yes, please call Peter Parker's family to the school...no, no he's not in trouble...alright, thanks. Have a nice day." Not in trouble? This _was_ trouble. Have a nice day? _Liar_.

The youth had nothing else to say as his mother and father were torn from their work to come to some stupid meeting about "Peter's worrisome thoughts" and "plans of action for Peter's own good". They all looked so _worried_ , and Peter didn't understand. Rather, he felt betrayed. He was crying, but he didn't know why. Maybe it was because he was being sent to some "professional" to "talk out his emotions". He didn't hear where exactly, but he heard the words "mental" and "institution" out of the torrent of sentences leaving the woman's mouth and he panicked. He cried harder because he's not _sick_ , he's _normal_. He's _happy_ and he didn't deserve this. This...this was a mistake. The only thing his parents did was nod and ask, "Peter did this? Peter feels like this?" They never asked Peter himself and his chest felt so heavy with betrayal that he could barely breathe past his hiccoughing. He couldn't grasp the situation fully, but what he had done was, for whatever reason, unforgiveable. His parents were smart, and the way they were acting solidified the facts for him. He _had_ to be happy: suicide was _taboo_.

"I'm sorry, Peter," He wanted to throttle that frizzy lady the moment she apologized. How dare she apologize when she was the one sending out the order? How could she have the gall to act remorseful? He ignored her and stared at the brown carpet, digging the toes of his shoes into it harshly because it looked to similar to the lady's own hair. "Sweetie, why don't you get your bag from your locker and leave early? It's not a big deal, Peter. You just have to talk and, if you get approved, you can come to the dance!" She slid a pink piece of paper across the table, which his parents took. His mother didn't have a single expression on her face as she took the other two pieces of paper, the ones written by him, and left.

"I'll wait in the car, Peter," his mother had said, ruffling his hair lightly. "She's right, it's no big deal. We'll get the paper signed and you can go to your dance! Weren't you so excited for it? Hurry and get your bag. Don't worry."

Peter's eyes were red and blotchy, his nose was running, and he was embarrassed. He had to get his bag when it was so obvious he had cried? So he walked as fast as his legs could take him. He walked and thanked whatever deity that came to mind because the hallways were empty. Max happened to pass by, but he ignored him.

"Woah, dude, are you okay?"

No. "Yeah. I'm leaving early, though. Family business."

"Dark stuff. Hey, I'm sorry. See you at the dance, though. Right? I'm thinking of asking Cathy, like you said."

Peter didn't care. "Yeah."

It was a beautiful day, and he had decided that his suffering must be a game to the deities above. The sunlight was golden and illuminated the trees. Soft clouds floated aimlessly by, occasionally blocking the sun before passing. As he entered their silver car, he dropped his gaze and apologized half-heartedly. The colorful blur out the side window suddenly seemed so interesting.

"It's alright, Peter," his dad had said, stealing a glance at his son before locking his eyes back to the road. "I'm sure it's all just a misunderstanding...is it? Actually, that's a better question. Peter, is this all a misunderstanding?"

Peter knew what he had to say, but he didn't know if it was true. "Yes."

He knew it was the right answer the moment the atmosphere immediately lightened up. His mother sighed in relief, "God, I knew it! Peter wouldn't do that. Look at all we have to go through just because Peter felt curious." His heart, once heavy with despair, was now heavy with guilt ('Look at all they have to go through because of _me_ '). Here, he realized that it didn't _matter_ if it was true. The truth didn't matter as long as he was normal.

"Yeah, he probably started crying because she called us. Isn't that right, Peter?"

"Yes. I thought I was in trouble!" He joined the good mood because that's what normal people _do_. He named happiness as his ultimate goal (or rather, his ultimate goal to prove he was _normal_ , which was his fundamental goal).

His mother made him change his clothes into brighter colors before they left to go to the "professional". Peter didn't remember the outer design of the building, but he recalled entering a two-story building wearing a bright red shirt and jeans. The inside was hushed: everyone spoke in whispers and the only company he had were some orange and blue fish darting around a large tank. While his parents left his side to talk to the main desk and deal with paperwork, he plopped himself down onto one of the chairs. They were the exact same chairs as the one he was interrogated in an hour ago and he hated it. The comfort they offered was all pretense; if there was any object he would name as the _most adult-like_ , it would be these chairs.

The floor was plush, carpeted with a thick mahogany rug, and the walls were painted a pastel-pink. The lady at the front desk looked awfully bored as she bit haphazardly at the eraser of a pencil, typing away at an old Dell computer as she nodded and spoke. Her skin was like creamy chocolate and, thinking back, Peter realized how racially stiff that school was. There were only whites and, occasionally, Asians.

His parents returned, sitting on either side of him, and the trio waited in silence (except for the occasional taps of keys from the computer) until a tall woman with fiery red hair came strolling down the stairs. Her lips were bright red and she had an even brighter smile on her face. She was very pretty. But her smile made her look young and not at all professional. She looked naive. This was the "professional"? _This?_

It was very easy tricking her. Perhaps his age gave him an advantage.

She had taken them back up to the second door, asking customary questions ("So, what's this handsome young man's name? What's his grade? What's he like, in your own words?") to his parents. For once, he didn't mind. Children don't answer questions like that, he had decided. Children sit by and let adults do all the heavy lifting.

The inside of the room was bland, with the same carpet and wallpaper, and the woman (Peter didn't bother remembering her name, so he called her Red) stood out like a flame. There were two plush couches positioned opposite of each other and a table in between. An ornate glass bowl of candy decorated the otherwise stark surface. He took a seat as his parents were asked to leave.

"Help yourself to some candy!" she exclaimed as she bounced parallel to the brunet. Too easy.

"Thank you," he grinned, taking a Tootsie Pop even though he wasn't quite in the mood for it. It's all in the image, after all. "I love candy! I think I eat too much for my own good, though."

"One can never eat too much candy," Red laughed. Peter wondered if her cheeks ever hurt from smiling so much, but he couldn't imagine her without it since her teeth were very white and pretty. Just like the bad guy from that rated-R movie.

He made a show of sucking on the lolly, beaming as much as he could in order to imitate Red. She asked, after a couple minutes of scanning a clipboard, "So, Peter. What are you here for?"

He wanted to reply, "You just read it off that clipboard. Why don't you tell me?" but he repeated, using the very same words the other adults used to describe him, "I wrote some very dangerous thoughts, so, for my own good, I have to talk to a professional."

He didn't quite recollect the conversation, but it was similar to the interrogation he had at school. The more he talked, the less she pestered. In the end, nobody questions a happy person. Anyhow, Peter compared the whole meeting like a game of "How many lies can we fit in our allotted hour?".

"Why did you write it?"

"I've always been interested in writing. See, I want to be an author. So, as any author should, I decided to pick a character before writing." Lie.

"An author! That sounds fun." Lie. "But why did you pick such a sad character?"

"The teacher told us to write about a depressing memory. A dark part of our past."

"But, I've been told you've been contemplating suicide?"

Insert a gasp here. "Me? Never!" Lie? "It was all for the character." Lie.

"Where did you learn about suicide? You seem a bit too young for such a mature topic!"

"I read about it."

"Do you want another candy?"

An hour past by. Red signed the pink slip, offering her services (to waste another hour of his life) "should Peter ever need someone to talk to", and they went home. He went to the dance, handing the stupid slip to the principal who stood at the front door to make sure he didn't enter without approval.

Easy.

He graduated middle school, hating every second of it. Then he realized it wasn't so bad if he didn't think about it. He realized that as long as he didn't mention anything about death, about suicide, about illness, about sorrow, he could obtain happiness and be _normal._ There it was! So clear! So simple! The secret to happiness: don't think. Don't think, just do what the adults say. If they are happy, then everything would be alright.

* * *

High school arrived and the first few weeks rewarded him with news of his parents' mangled corpses (A tragic accident, they said). He moved to live with Aunt May and Uncle Ben, leaving behind a beloved house full of memories (What kind? He didn't know) for something much emptier. For weeks, he dreamt of congealed blood sluggishly rolling down his mother's forehead, her dark hair matted with sweat and grime, and messy gashes mutilating his father's face with wounds cavernous enough to have gory cheekbones peeking out from beneath the shredded muscles. He smelled the iron in their blood, the burning of their flesh, the vomit from their fear. He could only stare as the leaking petroleum caught on fire rapidly, burning the two screaming figures into crisps beyond recognition.

Peter would wake up choking from the sharp stench of metal and blood. He was drowning, if not from his own terror, then in his sweat. His hair stuck together in wet clumps and his stomach convulsed madly as he dashed to the bathroom with the grace of a newborn colt. Heaving the few meals he previously had into a glass bowl, he burned his esophagus and nostrils as chunks of ill-digested food splashed into the water. He flushed the toilet before he could get a proper whiff of the odor and tossed his head back to rinse the taste away with Listerine.

For a week, everything reminded him of his lost family: food, candy, water, movies, vomit, fire, petrol, homework, children, teachers, _school_. He stopped caring and time stopped existing. Weeks dragged into months and suddenly his freshman year was gone, replaced by a short two months of summery reprieve that left as soon as it came. The boy transformed into an impressionable teenaged sophomore with no hobbies other than making his aunt and uncle proud, but stopped trying as hard after realizing that he didn't _need_ straight A's to make them happy: he could get B's (and C's and D's and _F's_ , if he felt like it) and they'd still compliment him. Nonetheless, he continued to receive good grades because he had pride (no matter how languid he had become). Aunt May became worried and Uncle Ben became suspicious ("Ben, don't you think he seems a bit...odd?"), so Peter reminded himself to smile and mastered the art of facades.

High school was only marginally better than middle school because of the amount of people (because they weren't _better_ people). Peter barely knew anyone in the damn school and he liked it: the only names he had to remember were the ones that he shared the same classes with. The white hallways were wide, with blue trashcans set up every couple classrooms, and the beige lockers felt gigantic in comparison to the minuscule red ones he was so accustomed to; alas, no matter how broad, the traffic was a severe pain in the ass. The moment the dismissing bells screeched, four grades worth of pubescent teenagers poured out of all the rooms like ants. It was like clockwork: bell, shove, leave, repeat. Peter liked to stay in his classes as long as he could just to avoid all the touching, but it turned out that most teachers wanted to leave just as much as the students. In that aspect, they were almost like children (except they were worse).

Adults were _always_ worse. There may be a separate hierarchy in the world of adults, but there's one constant: nobody limits the people at the top (Who limits the limiter?). In other words, adults govern in a world of children. This is all simplified speech, but Peter preferred to avoid thinking about it too harshly; he preferred to avoid thinking at _all_ , actually. He liked things simple. Dictums were simple, so he made his own: steer clear of adults. Hell, steer clear of _everyone_.

"Peter," his aunt had asked one morning while she was tinkering away in the kitchen, "Do you play any sports? Mrs. Jennings said..."

Thus, he wriggled his way into the tennis team with the help of someone in his math class named Daniel ("We don't have enough players."). Plus, a lanky guy like Peter couldn't do much else (except maybe soccer, but that seemed like too much running). With the couple months worth of intensive lessons he had tucked in his pocket, Peter made it into the Junior Varsity team as an extra.

"The tennis team!" Aunt May had been pleasantly surprised and Peter briefly wondered why he didn't care. Best not to think too hard. "Well, that's fantastic! Those indoors lessons really _did_ work wonders, didn't it?" He didn't mention the fact that he seldom touched his racquet and attended his tennis lessons without a word.

A week later, she mentioned clubs and a Mr. Anniston, so he joined the philosophy club on a whim because his physics teacher, Mr. D. (ha!), mentioned it during class. Peter _liked_ this Mr. D; in fact, he would even go as far as saying he'd want to _be_ him.

Mr. Danton was an enigma of a man, with the muscles of a pro-wrestler and the brains of genius (okay, those were all exaggerations but Peter felt like it was well-deserved), and though he was bald, he had dark stubbles on his face. The man wore dress shirts and always rolled up his sleeves. Peter noticed that he had a thin cross inked on his left hand and discovered that they were _drawn_.

"You have a cross on your hand," the teenager had pointed out one day after class as he waited for the traffic to die down. This teacher was about as laid-back as he was in class and didn't mind staying behind.

"I do," the man had replied, slipping a pen into the pocket of his breast pocket. "I draw it on every morning to remind myself to pray."

"Christian?" the brunet leaned on one of the gray desks, observing as Mr. D. methodically packed his brown messenger bag with papers and folders.

"Catholic."

The physics classroom was located on the second floor, looking over the courtyard, and decorated with quotes from geniuses all over the world. The blinds were always open (unless someone decided to close it) and the lights were always off. Huh, looks like sunshine has a purpose after all. Anyhow, while (spacing out) reading the quotes during class the next few days, Peter spotted odd ones like, "Don't fight over pencils" and "Be nice so that Daddy is happy" signed messily by a "Tyron" and a "Michael".

"I have seven children," Mr. Danton had said, and the delight in his eyes had glistened so brightly that Peter had to look away. Pride, love... _happiness_. He couldn't bear to look at it, but he didn't know why. "I adopted four and had three of my own. We're dysfunctional, but I'm happy."

"What is happiness?" he had asked offhandedly, toeing at the laces of his dirty shoes. If anyone knew, it _had_ to be Mr. D.

"Coincidentally, that's the exact question I had planned for the philosophy club. You can stop by if you want; we have meetings during lunch every Friday."

Peter had never been as disappointed as he had been that Friday at the meeting.

Some smartass named Tony (who spoke too fast for his own good) announced, "Happiness is overrated."

Clint, a prankster in all dimensions, piped up from the back ledge he was lounging on, "You only say that 'cause you don't know the answer!"

"Fuck off, Legolas," a pause. "I know the answer- of course I know the answer. I know the answer to _everything_. Happiness is money."

Steve, a blond about as well-built (and good-looking) as Adonis, disagreed, "Why so? I think that happiness is family."

"You can't provide for a family without money, dumbass."

"That's not what I'm saying, Tony, stop twisting my words. Money is used for goods and services, and that's required to live, to _survive_ , but there's more to life than just surviving."

"I'm not twisting your words. I'm just saying that family _isn't_ happiness, because my mom's dead and my dad can't get his head out of his ass enough to look at me, but I'm still here. Happy and rich."

"Well, maybe your happiness now isn't happiness at its full potential. Anyone can be happy, but maybe _true_ happiness is something different? With a lifelong partner or with children?"

" _Ew_ , children? Gross. I hate children. Is this one of those 'Love conquers all' speeches? What the hell, Steve."

"I'm just saying-"

"And also! Are you suggesting that, since I don't have a nice family to go back home to, I'm not _truly_ happy? It's almost like, I don't know, you're forgetting that philosophy club is supposed to be open-minded and allow different interpretations."

"Okay. Okay, if I came on too strong, I'm sorry for that. We just have differing opinions and that's fine. Just let me speak before shutting me down; at least _I_ asked for your reasoning."

"There it is! Making yourself out to be the good cop and leaving me as the bad cop. If that's how you want to play it, how's this: at least _I_ -"

"Oh, God, Tony! Honestly? Stop making this an issue about _me_ when it's an issue about _you_. Just accept my apology and tell everyone why you think money is happiness. It's not hard!"

"You apologize for _everything_. That apology wasn't even an apology, it was just you dismissing me to show everyone what a good guy you are. 'Oh, look at me! I have so much more manners than Tony!'"

"What is _wrong_ with you? Why do you go off on everything I say? I apologize, you get mad. I don't apologize, you get mad. What am I supposed to do?"

"Again! _I'm_ the bad guy! You make a fantastic storyteller, Steve. How many different ways can you tell the same story about me-"

Natasha, picking at her fingernails and flipping her pretty red hair, interrupted, "Boys, please. This is the seventh argument in a row you've had at _philosophy_ club. In _school_. If you want to fight, take it outside." Peter concluded that he liked her but didn't know if it was for her hair or because he agreed with her. All this drama, all this attention...it was shameful, to be honest. Openly seeking attention, and so _obviously_ at that, was shameful! Didn't they know?

Sam, a chocolate-skinned kid with a quirky space in his front two teeth, suddenly asked, "What about you, Mr. D? What do you think happiness is?"

His ears perked up: finally, the answer he'd been searching for! But...

"I don't know," _What_? "It depends for each and every person. For Tony, happiness is money. For Steve, it's family. I'm still looking for mine, but I know what makes me happy. My kids, my wife...they make me happy. Money makes me happy. People make me happy, but I don't know what it _is_." _Then why is it a question if there's no answer!_

Peter snapped, "Then, there's no answer?" He had been so convinced that he was happy; after all, he had resolutely followed all the steps to be happy, hadn't he? He avoided wondering why he felt so listless as he went through the motions: he stopped thinking, he just _did_. And now, the moment he used his head for something beyond numbers and essays, there was nothing? Now that he knew he was _obsessed_ with the idea of happiness, he couldn't know what it was? He had wanted it! He had forgotten why, but he had wanted it only to have it slip from his hands.

"Like I said, it depends on..." He didn't listen. He didn't _need_ to listen. What's the point of a question with no answer? Peter never went to another meeting.

He searched it up online instead, but there were no answers there either.

"Happiness is whatever makes you smile..."

"Happiness is success..."

"Happiness is a good job, steady income..."

"Happiness is a suitable partner and children..."

"Happiness is climbing the ladder, either social or corporate..."

"Happiness is early retirement..."

There was only one logical conclusion: happiness was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Happiness didn't exist- _never_ existed- because questions without answers don't exist. Back at that ludicrous gathering (of misfits and _abnormal_ people), he hadn't wanted the _students_ giving the answer; he had wanted _Mr. Danton's_ answer. _The_ answer. Another disappointment. Another betrayal.

Peter started leaving the physics classroom as rapidly as he could, chased out by his own memories. He discovered that Tony was in his French class and avoided him like the plague. Steve frequented the hallways near the new wing with Sam. Natasha and Clint enjoyed lounging around the courtyard. Before long, he was avoiding everyone that so much as _associated_ with any of the five: James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes, Bruce Banner, Pietro Maximoff, Wanda Maximoff, T'Challa Udaku, James Rhodes, Thorsten "Thor" Odinson, Locke "Loki" Odinson, names, names, names. None of them were normal. _None_. These guys were dangerous.

Peter became trapped in the cage he built himself: the area that he could travel in the high school was even smaller than the area of his entire middle school. Sometimes he would see them in the halls, but one good thing about Peter was his invisibility and the fact that the people at the top barely glanced at the people on the bottom. Why would a royal deliberately leave a castle to gaze at the lower class? He grew even more distanced and listless, but he didn't care. He stopped trying to smile as a whole and, when asked, pushed the blame onto stress.

Time didn't exist. He was trapped in a quagmire while the world sped past. Leaves withered and snow fell, but Peter stayed where he was. Descending. The tennis season ended and he realized that there was nothing left to do but study for finals. He remained cooped up in his bedroom, which was messy yet sparse: he wasn't motivated enough to decorate and never felt like cleaning. Wrinkled clothes and crumpled packets of gum littered the floor, and the camera his uncle bought him last Christmas lay collecting dust at the corner of his desk. There were textbooks and worksheets, lit by a single dull lamp, that were carelessly strewn across his workplace and his school-assigned Apple laptop charger was stuffed in his backpack since he never charged it at home. He might have left his laptop at school.

Peter measured time based on the haze that engulfed him: it became worse as time went on. His mind was stuffed with cotton and he began to forget. Conversations. Assignments. Tests. Dates. Birthdays. Friends. Names. Everything was so tedious and he woke up only to sleep again. Wake up, school, home, homework, sleep, repeat. Wake up, school, home, sleep, repeat. Wake up, school, sleep, repeat. Wake up, sleep, repeat. Sleep, repeat. Repeat.

"Hey. Peter, right?"

"Yeah."

"My name's James, but you can call me Bucky. I'm in the philosophy club with you?"

"Okay."

"I didn't see you at the meeting last week. Or the week before. Or the week before that week... I didn't see you at all, actually. You're like a ghost or something, man!"

"Oh."

"Is it because of Steve and Tony? Don't worry about that: they argue a lot. They're good friends, though. Somehow. It's a bit weird, I guess."

"Okay."

"See you next week?"

"For what?"

"Philosophy club. Are you okay?"

"Oh. Yeah."

What was it for?

Repeat.

"Peter, you haven't been acting...well, like you usually do. Are you feeling alright?" Who said this?

"Peter, can you come outside with me? You're not in trouble, trust me...okay. You know I have seven kids and, well, I know you're not you. Your grades are dropping, just barely, but I can still see it. I'm worried about you. I won't pester you or anything, but I just wanted to remind you that I'm here. The school guidance counselor is here. If you want to talk..." Who?

"Hey, man. Good ol' Buck told me that I scared you off and Steve told me to tell you not to worry. So yeah. I mean, I don't care what you think but that was no big deal; we fight all the time. Arguing is basically a routine at this point; Mr. D. stopped caring three years ago. You should come back." Who was this?

"Peter, are you-"

"Peter, are-"

"Peter-"

Repeat.


	2. Forget

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Okay, so I read a comment (I love comments!). This person talked about how it was hard for her to read this because she's gone through depression as well and she could relate to what Peter was going through. And that got me a little scared because, okay, I myself am going through a rough patch. Have been for about five years or so (since I'm going to be a senior now). I have depression and I actually decided to write this because I never knew until someone told me. Of course, a story is a story, so I'm having my own fun while writing this (DRAMA! LIGHTS! ACTION!). Anyway. I'm no expert regarding depression; hell, I can't bring myself to search it up on a Google search engine. So I just wanted to say:
> 
> If you are going through depression and take this story personally, it may not be in your best interest to read it. I love readers. I love everyone who takes time out of their day to read stuff I write. It touches me and it makes me happy when I get feedback, too! But, I'm going through a rough patch myself. This story could change as I change. It could get worse. Bad things, bad thoughts, all that jazz could happen. And no matter how much I love watching the numbers go up, I refuse to negatively influence anyone.

**Forget**

Peter was a man of belief- not religiously, that is, but mentally. He didn't want to do anything, so he did just that: nothing.

He didn't eat because moving his limbs took up too much energy. He didn't speak because taking another breath felt like lifting a thousand pounds off his chest. His room hadn't been cleaned and the neglect was reflected through the dust balls rolling around the floor. It was becoming harder and harder to open his eyes every morning and all he wanted to do was sleep because he was so _tired_ , but even lying down wore him out because it confined him in his thoughts. He didn't know which one was worse: physical or mental exhaustion.

He wondered what he did that sapped him of his vigor, but could never think of anything beyond waking up and school. His homework was (shoddily) completed every day he went to class, though he never remembered doing it. When he closed his eyes, not even the ceiling of his bedroom came to mind. Every day he forgot more and the empty pockets in his memory closed in.

He was thinking as he always did in his bedroom, enclosed by darkness and indolently staring at the bland ceiling. The room was so dark that he didn't even know if his eyes were opened or closed. 'Is this what the rest of my life will be like? I don't even know what my life is like _now_. The only thing I know for certain is my forgetfulness. Maybe I have a mental illness...

'I don't think I want to live anymore,' Inhale. 'Wait, what?' Exhale. Must be Aunt May's soap opera getting to his head. 'Okay. Something else to think about: what do I have to do? I have to do my homework, if I have any. I have to clean. I have to eat. I have to...to be happy. Do I have to be happy? Is it considered a fulfilled goal if it doesn't even exist? But, if I'm not happy then I'm not normal, and if I'm not normal then...' Then what? Without his base goal, there's no point in anything. He'd have to find _another_ base goal, but that seemed like so much work. What had he been working for? If he was in the seventh grade... that's four years worth of time squandered.

Peter had been screwed over by another Mr. D, except this one ruined everything in less than forty-five minutes. It felt worse because he thought this one was _different._ God, when would he learn? Not soon enough, apparently.

It was as if he was locked in a room with a key that didn't work: his mind was his own, but he could barely control his train of thought. Trains. Distress signal! Blow the horn! The breaks didn't work and he was going full-speed into a brick wall. Did he go straight and kill himself or turn left and kill the innocent citizens tied down to the rails? Going straight felt like a decent end to his life because it would be suicide in the guise of kindness.

'What the fuck?' He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes when he felt them suddenly prickle with tears. Stupid. A thick ball was shoved down his throat and Peter felt like crying. A breathy laugh slid out of his mouth instead. 'Crazy. God, I'm crazy. Four years wasted. Forty-eight months. That's...what, two hundred eight days? Two hundred nine? _Fuck_.' Another wave of exhaustion crushed him; his recent mood swings drained him. There was nothing to _do_ (or rather, there was too much).

'There's something wrong with me,' he had decided, allowing his wet eyes to dilate as he stared into nothing. He may know shit's worth about normality, but this...this _couldn't_ be normal; rather, he wouldn't know what to do if it _was_ normal. 'Is it stress? How do I relieve stress?'

Perhaps it was the people he hung around (but that made no sense because Peter couldn't even remember the last conversation he had), but the first thought that came to mind was smoke. Nicotine was supposed to alleviate stress-induced moods. Logically, if whatever he was feeling was indeed stress-related, it would only make sense to seek reprieve. He needed control, and if he decided to take it in the form of a stick that apparently shortened lives, no one had to know.

The next few weeks were spent weaving through as many social groups as he could, targeting the ones that mentioned anything regarding drugs and alcohol. Admittedly, Facebook and Snapchat were usually what he used to get around. It was (regrettably) too easy; nonetheless, pursuing a goal felt nice, no matter how insignificant.

He communicated and ex-communicated as fast as flipping through the pages of a book: he needed a fast way to get cigarettes without an ID because, frankly, he wasn't about to wait three years and pay for a thirteen-dollar pack of Marlboro's just to try one. He stumbled upon drug alcohol transactions before even _seeing_ a cigarette, but he got lucky with a dark-haired girl who let him use one after inviting him to her house (mansion). Well, her best friend's house (mansion). Apparently, she had gotten into a pretty brutal fight with her parents, as proven by a vicious shiner adorning her otherwise pale face, and was crashing there for the time being. Peter learned that sympathy, however false, opened a lot of doors ("Oh. Oh, _shit_. Do you need a place to stay?" _Please say no_. "No, I'm leeching off my friend. Thanks, though. You should come over: his house his _gigantic_." Peter felt guilty for urging her to say no.)

"Just inhale and relax." He might have taken the time to enjoy her voice if he wasn't too busy coughing his damn lungs out, but noted how nice her laugh sounded. "Happens to the best of us, Pete. Here, let me-" she took the smoke from between his fingers and took a long drag herself before motioning him over. He scooted closer to her, his worn jeans chafing against the curb they were sitting on, and allowed her petite hands to grasp his face. Their lips locked and he inhaled through his mouth as she sighed, "Shotgun kiss, but with nicotine instead of weed." Cute.

"You know, I think we should have tried that first," he replied, licking his lips as he spoke because he had remnants of cotton candy-flavored lip gloss smeared on. It tasted nice. "Is this cotton candy?"

"Yeah. Tastes good, right? I think I eat more of it than I have on," she took another drag, staring out at the pink sky before glancing back at him, "Want to try some more?"

And, okay, it was pretty awesome because she was cool with the fact that he had absolutely no experience at all. She told him what to do and he did it; hell, he wanted to pat himself on the back the moment he swallowed her moan. It tasted of nicotine, peppermint gum, and cotton candy as he sucked her tongue softly. Peter discovered the ease in handing the reins to someone else.

"Felicia?"

They broke apart slowly, mostly because there was a vice grip around the back of his neck. A short blond, who looked even frailer than the girl with her impressive black eye, was standing with his arms crossed and hip cocked to the side. His smooth hair was meticulously styled to sweep a little over one eye. Peter also noticed the designer suit (and the designer sunglasses...there was practically no sunlight, for God's sake. What the hell does this guy need sunglasses for?) and the equally fashionable backpack.

"Harry," her arms slid back to her side, "this is Peter. Peter, Harry."

"Uh, hi," Peter said dumbly. How was he supposed to approach this guy? He looked curious instead of mad, so he probably wasn't about to get pummeled (not that the guy had the arms). "Nice, uh. Nice house, dude. Looks nice and...big." Smooth. Oh, is that oxygen? Looks like he was too busy necking to breathe properly.

A pause. Peter wondered if it was customary to stand up and shake hands instead. He didn't know the protocol for rich people. Laughter. "Fel, I like this guy! You're a funny guy, Pete. Want a drink?"

Should he? What the hell. "Sure." (Naturally, he called his aunt first. "Hey, Aunt May? Can I stay out a bit late? I want to hang out at a friend's house." "Oh, sure! Who? Do you need me to drop off anything?" "Nah, it's just my friend, Andrew." _Who the hell is Andrew?_ "Oh, Andrew! Have fun and make sure to call me if you need anything!")

Harry's neighborhood was barred from the public by an enormous iron gate, topped off with a gatekeeper _and_ one of those camera feed thingies so everyone can see anyone who tries to enter. There was a pale stone pillar several meters before the gate that held a plastic box with a slit so that those who owned a "house" could merely slip their keycard through and enter. Of course, the blond was so ridiculously wealthy that, once inside the outer gate, he had _another_ automated gate protecting his home (with another plastic box that required a separate key card). Peter thought the freaking gates were impressive and then he saw Harry's "house" (which was easily the biggest) and began wondering how the hell he even got here. High maintenance neighborhoods made him jumpy.

Harry's mansion was two stories high with a huge arch looming over the front door. Tall semi-rounded windows were propped on each side of the wooden doors (that's right, they were double doors), and each door on the second floor had its own balcony with an intricate metal and wood railing. It was one of those mansions that were so expansive, it looked more like multiple buildings merged into one. There were towering roof tiles bumping up from behind the front arch, but it worked. It was still beautiful, adorned with perfectly shaped bushes and light rays beaming up from the ground surrounding the house.

Now, walking into the neighborhood in general made him uncomfortable: hell, he had to awkwardly roll his ancient piece of crap bicycle and try to ignore the open stare of the gatekeeper when he was first invited. Once inside, he had to bike around the huge neighborhood for a couple minutes wondering which building was, as Felicia had said, "the biggest, most conspicuous house that screams 'I'm fucking rich and I can buy your ancestors'". Imagine Peter's surprise when he walked into one of these beauties. He stuck out like a sore thumb, for God's sake: a commoner in an upperclassmen's dwelling? Ridiculous.

There wasn't even a creak as Harry pushed open the door, and Peter barely made any observations before being dragged upstairs. For one: everything was expensive. The floors were white marble. The wooden staircase was wide and carpeted. There were ornate glass vases, retaining stunning flowers that looked at their prime, held by small mahogany tables. While tripping up the steps, Peter managed to catch the rhythmic clacking of the blond's shoes. Harry was wearing one of those shoes with heels, wasn't he? Cute.

Felicia temporarily disappeared to go change. Her bedroom- or rather, the guest bedroom- was at the end of the hall to the right while Harry's was the second on the left. Peter trailed after Harry because he didn't really know what else to do: Felicia wasn't there to drag him around while he was taking in the grandeur of his surroundings, but something about the blond's atmosphere commanded respect. He chose to focus all of his attention on that instead.

"You don't have to worry about any adults," Harry had said once he burst into his bedroom, chucking his bag carelessly onto a white king-sized bed. Everything was flawless and tidy, so unlike Peter's own room. "My dad's never home." The dark chuckle that followed let him know that this kid had issues to. Seemed like rich kids always had daddy issues, but Peter didn't really have the right to talk trash since both his parents were dead. And also because he had manners (but that almost seemed secondary).

It turned out that the Harry's fancy black bag was transporting bottle after bottle of liquor: vodka, scotch, whiskey, beer, wine, and Peter would have named more but he didn't know what they were called. Tequila? Whatever.

Harry, feeling Peter's stare as he was emptying the contents of his bag on his bed, turned and grinned proudly, "A lot, huh? We have a separate cabin, but it's so much more fun to go out and get it yourself. Nothing fun about ordering servants around." He motioned the brunet over with a friendly arm, so Peter unstuck his dirty converse from the spotless marble floor and approached. Alcoholic rich kid? Daddy issues? Housing an abused best friend? Everything about Harry screamed 'dangerous'.

Peter didn't care.

Something happened between standing at the door dry and standing at the door completely soaked, but he wasn't really sure what. It probably had something to do with that string Peter unknowingly shuffled across. Something hard and metallic clanged against his skull and rolled away; however, he was too busy clutching the bump on his head to look. It _hurt._ It felt like a baptism, except the pastor was a completely trashed sadist that confused water for vodka. Fucking pastors. Fucking popes. Fucking Mr. D and his stupid Catholic ass-

Though his olive jacket took the brunt of the wetness, his dark T-shirt still clung to his skin. Thick black glasses slid off the bridge of his nose and skated harmlessly a few inches away while the stink of alcohol unclogged his nostrils. Peter spluttered. Pride? What's that?

Harry looked horrified but was laughing hard enough to snort, "Oh _shit_. I totally forgot about that! I was going to prank my butler the next time he came in with this bucket-string thing I saw on YouTube. Man, that was so good! I'll have to remember to set it up again...yeah, take off your jacket. You can just leave it on the ground; I'll have Fel clean it and get it to you tomorrow. Don't worry." He was a commanding sort of fellow, but it didn't bother Peter as much since he was too busy being in pain. While resolutely attempting _not_ to curse Harry out, he tried to think of the exclusive company he had essentially been accepted into. The excruciating throbbing in his head was like a trial mission to join a secret society. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, involves not calling Harry a fucking twat. This message will self-destruct in five seconds- "You look like a lost puppy." Fucking _twat_.

Harry left and Felicia entered, wearing silky white pajamas and holding a tall wineglass while spinning a handheld wine opener around her index finger, and leapt over the wet floor. She completely ignored Peter's wet state. The bed bounced when she landed and she proceeded to inspect the sloshing liquor by expertly reading the labels and setting them aside until she found one she fancied. Harry had gone to get a towel from his personal bathroom (because there's no such thing as too few bathrooms, right?) and cups for the drinks.

"Château Lafite-Rothschild," she sighed happily as she gently poured herself a glass of red wine. "89% Cabernet and 11% Merlot, did you know? $2,000." Anxiety churned in Peter's stomach: red wine, white satin sheets, white silk pajamas? Was he the only one who saw the potential risks?

"How did he even get that?" he asked instead, shifting awkwardly as he felt his boxers soak in vodka. God, the _smell_ \- "It's too expensive to get at a common liquor store."

Felicia paused to take a dainty sip, placing the dark wine bottle on a table beside the bed before replying, "Harry doesn't like things that aren't expensive, so he doesn't go to common liquor stores. These rich folks have their _own_ liquor store filled with exclusively expensive crap. You won't find anything less than a thousand dollars in here," Sip. Pause. Swallow. "It's insane. This whole place is insane.

"It feels nice though, doesn't it?" she asked suddenly, her sharp green eyes piercing through Peter's brown ones. Did it feel nice to have one's undergarments sticking to very private places? Believe it or not, the answer was (and always would be) a resounding no. "Feels nice to get away from all that common crap. That vodka he spilled on you was probably worth thousands. How does it feel to be worth more than you'll ever be?" A pause.

"Sorry," Felicia apologized abruptly, dropping her vibrant eyes to the wine. She looked terribly lonely, but Peter remained silent. When she looked back up at him, he just shook his head.

"Don't," he had said, because he was sure that was what she wanted to hear. After all, if she was going to vent, he might as well get her to do it all in one go. "I'm listening." He didn't care enough to be offended since the pain that faded away was replaced by fatigue.

Felicia shifted a bit on the bed, taking a long sip of the wine. She peeked at the bathroom door before she spoke. "I just...what he said about pranking his butler? That was a lie. Harry does that to everyone; shit, that bucket was probably meant for me in the first place. The last time I told him I was getting tired of it, he went off about spending more money on me than anyone ever had. It was true, so I stopped bringing it up." How terribly dramatic.

Frigid fingers squirmed its way into his head and the adrenaline was promptly replaced with a pulsing headache. He licked his lips, "Why are you... What makes you stay? He seems like an asshole to me." Oh, that vodka definitely had some hints of spice. And sugar. What did he just say?

Sip. "The...the money," Sip, "I know I'm fucked up- but I can't help it! I like money. I like leisure," Pause, "Harry has all of that, even if he's a selfish bastard that treats everyone like his toys..." The stench was making Peter's empty stomach feel worse; he didn't remember the last time he ate. A part of his mind told him to pay attention to Felicia because she was exposing a part of her to him, but he _couldn't_. The room was spinning and he was overcome with the urge to vomit. "-sex is power and money is influence." What were they even talking about anymore?

He understood why Felicia told him such things, despite only knowing him for a week at most. It was desperation, and Peter's felt it before so he understood. She had no one else to talk to so she told the first person who bothered to listen. Or rather, she told someone who couldn't influence Harry into abandoning her because no matter how much she wanted out, she wouldn't know what to do once she left. Peter hated her for making things so complicated.

He felt a heavy stab of guilt at the thought: Felicia didn't do anything to deserve his hatred. Here he was, presented with a situation where he could have helped her by simply saying, "If you need anywhere to go, my house is always open", but he didn't. Remorse overcame him, but he couldn't bring himself to speak lest he threw up stomach acid and water. Kindness was a lesson he never regretted learning because he liked smiles and laughter, but _shit._ He was so damn tired.

Sometimes his compunctions kept him up at night. Regret, exhaustion...he couldn't sleep through any of it.

Harry strode in with a fluffy towel, a glass, and a dazzling smile. Peter wondered how fucked up the guy could be. Was Peter fucked up, too? He didn't think so- rather, he _refused_ to think so. He was just stressed out. If he was fucked up, then that just solidified the fact that he wasted nearly a fourth of his life. Frankly, he'd prefer not to go down those memories again in front of two strangers. He liked to think he blended in perfectly.

'Okay, new plan,' he thought as Harry insisted on drying Peter himself. Peter had to kneel and kept banging his head against the blond's delicate abdomen. All the apologies he had said out of habit were muffled. 'Avoid rich people in general. Pocket a pack of Marlboro from that glass candy bowl on the way out. Never return. What's thirteen dollars to someone who literally pours thousands of dollars worth of vodka on a stranger?' Sound plan. _But what about Felicia?_

"I think I should leave," he blurted out once Harry started peeling off Peter's shirt, keeping a soft grip on the latter's flimsy wrist. "Thanks, Harry, Felicia, but my...she told me to come home. Early. Earlier." _What am I saying? I need to tell Feli-_ Harry stubbornly refused to let go.

"What do you mean, Pete?" Harry asked, raising an elegant eyebrow. "You didn't even drink any of the stuff I bought."

"Sorry," _Why? It's not like he bought it for me,_ "but her word is law. You know how it is. I'll see you around, though." That was a lie if Peter's ever heard one: he _wouldn't_ see him around. He wouldn't see _either_ of them around. That's why he needed to tell...who? Peter's head pulsated against his skull.

"Alright, but before you go," Harry sighed, letting go and tilting his head toward his bathroom. "Take a shower. We don't want your aunt wondering why you smell like vodka, right?"

"Okay." The girl, who was still sipping away at her wine, shook her head minutely with pursed lips and his heart sank into his stomach. He wondered what he did to make her so upset. _She looks better smiling._

God, Peter was so lightheaded.

Harry veered to the bed while he reluctantly slid off his drenched sneakers. Just like her, the blond was fingering through all of bottles before picking one with golden liquid sloshing inside its elongated neck. Peter noticed the sopping trails his socks were leaving and tiptoed as casually as he could (except he probably looked like an uncoordinated version of Charlie Chaplin and Michael Jackson). Each step felt like he was stapling another nail onto a coffin (Who's coffin?).

The bathroom was bigger than Peter's room (any form of the word "big" seemed repetitive at this point); in fact, if he was feeling particularly dramatic, he might even say that it was _twice_ the size of his room. There was an extensive marble tabletop with two golden glass sinks on each end stretching across one side, while a large glass shower, a built-in tub, and an ivory _couch_ was on the other. Basically, the tub was against the glass of the shower and the couch, in case the top of the toilet seat was too plebeian to sit on (Speaking of toilet, Harry's was just _there_. No golden seat, no design whatsoever. It was weird). Everything was white marble, glass, and wood (plus the occasional sleek bursts of gold and silver). And mirrors. The whole goddamn room was a mirror.

Anyway, Peter hadn't the faintest idea how to work Harry's shower, so he left the button-pressing and the lever-turning to the master. In the mean time, he occupied himself by toeing out of his socks as smoothly as possible because he didn't want to bend down and get another whiff of spicy-sweet vodka. Bile still churned in the depths of his stomach.

He didn't _not_ like vodka (because he'd never tried it before), but it was one thing to drink it and another to swim in it. He didn't know if he should hate Harry for how he treated people. Didn't know if he should blame Harry's behavior on illness or character. There was something glaringly _wrong_ about this. Peter was forgetting something, but the promise of a warm shower entranced him.

"Left is hot, right is cold," Harry announced as he threw his head back to take gulps of his scotch (Or was it bourbon? Rye? All of them were tinted gold). The continuous stream of water thrummed softly in the background.  "Gotta love the burn of whiskey." Oh, whiskey.

Peter took off his shirt slowly, waiting for the blond to leave. Nothing happened. "Thanks, I got it from here." Pale eyes continued to roam his lanky body and Peter felt increasingly uncomfortable. What was Harry looking at? "Uh, are you going to, you know. Go?"

"Nah," the blond painstakingly crawled over the marble ledge of the tub, tumbling down the side with his lips firmly locked onto the whiskey bottle. There was a resounding crack as his knee collided with the ground. "Fuck, that hurt." _Serves you right._

The brunet just looked at him helplessly for a moment before speaking, "Hey, man. This is real nice of you, and I promise I won't steal anything in here. I have to shower, though." The water was still running. That's money down the drain, dammit, and even if it wasn't Peter's money, he was extremely defensive about leaving water running. Because water was expensive and Peter was poor (okay, not _poor_ poor, but lower middle class poor).

"Oh, I don't care if you steal anything. I can always buy another of...whatever you steal," Harry took another swig and rested his arms on the very ledge he collapsed off of. His face was nuzzled comfortably in his arms, though his gaze never left Peter's. "Go on. Just forget I'm here and do your business."

" _Harry_ ," Peter had yet to take off his pants, and wet boxers were unpleasant. Zero out of ten, would not recommend. "Please leave. I can't shower with you here."

"But _why_ ," Harry whined, guzzling practically a quarter of the bottle. "I'm drunk. I won't remember. We're both guys, so it doesn't matter, right? Are you hiding something? A tat? Cuts? I don't judge- wait, that's a lie. I won't judge _you_. I like you."

"Why do you want to watch anyway? I already promised I wouldn't steal anything. Watching people shower isn't normal, it's... _creepy_." Truth be told, he was getting pretty tired of saying "normal". What the hell did _Peter_ know about normality? All he wanted to do was fucking smoke and being in the goddamn house was grating his nerves. He was forgetting something and he was getting irritated about it, but he didn't know what it was. He knew he should care, since it felt like a very important something, but he didn't.

"I like watching people," the latter replied crossly, pouting a little as his eyes narrowed. It wasn't very cute at the moment. "I'm just sayin', I'm not moving until you start showering. What's the big deal? Maybe I like watching people wash off expensive vodka. You're a commoner; you don't get to kinkshame me." _"-he went off about spending more money on me than anyone ever had-"_

"But you'll leave once I start?"

"No, I'll stay until you finish." _Jesus. Buddha. Parvati._

Peter conceded with a labored groan, shimmying out of his trousers and pants before remembering, "Weren't you going to wash my clothes for me?" _Please get out_. _That is my penis you are looking at and I am not comfortable with you looking at it. Or at me. Ever._ "Harry, I swear to God, stop staring." _I want to go home._

"Whatever," Harry dismissed with an ill-coordinated wave of the hand as he essentially swatted himself in the face. What a lightweight, for someone who supposedly drank so much. "Felicia! _Felicia!_ " _Felicia?_

The brunet jumped into the shower stall in order to create whatever barrier he had between him and the door until he realized everything was made of glass. "What- Why're you calling...?" The blond quieted down, though Peter suspected it was more for the whiskey than for his question.

Swig. "Felicia's gonna wash it for you."

"She's going to- Harry, she's a _guest_. And a girl, at that. You don't order you guests, _especially_ if they're girls, to do your laundry. Or a stranger's laundry!"

"But then what about maids?" the blond asked curiously, his blue eyes never leaving Peter's brown. "I have maids that are girls and _they_ do my laundry."

Peter turned the water cold and squirted some shampoo, which promised "lustrous" and "shimmering" hair follicles, in his palm before began scrubbing his scalp as fast as possible. The faster he was, the closer he was to home. "All maids are girls. They get paid to do their job, Harry."

"I have manservants, too."

Scrub. "Okay."

"So, if I'm not supposed to get Felicia to do it, who do I ask?"

Rinse. "Your...employees. Or, do it yourself."

"But they all left for the night! Also, I hate manual labor."

Conditioner. "Don't you have, I don't know, butlers or something? Live-in butlers?"

"Felicia is my butler."

Scrub. "She is your friend." _"-treats everyone like his toys-"_

"Why're you showering like that? Are you mad? You're supposed to let the conditioner set before rinsing it out."

Rinse. "I am."

"No, you just put it on and washed it off. That's anti-frizz conditioner. All natural shit...it has a lot of oils and stuff in it. Do it again."

"Harry-"

"Do it!"

Peter grumbled petulantly to himself, willfully ignoring the pressure of Harry's eyes on his body. He squirted more of the conditioner in his hand- _"-he's a selfish bastard-"_

"More! You can't just use _that_ much."

-another squirt, then. No big deal. He liked to think he had a lot of patience. Harry was just like a child, ordering Peter around like a... _"-his toys-"_

'Like I'm a toy,' Peter's hands paused its kneading (because he had to _massage_ the conditioner, not murder it). He suddenly felt doused by a bucket of cold water because _she_ was what he had forgotten. He had forgotten a living, breathing person at the sight of grandeur and wealth. Felicia. He talked to her a few minutes ago, though he couldn't fully recall their conversation over the tumultuous waves crashing in his stomach. His headache returned. 'Felicia was the one who told me that. I'm forgetting...what else am I forgetting _-_ ' Why was he here in the first place? What made him come here? An unyielding grip over his heart suffocated him as he sped through the conditioner and the body wash. He had to get out. Where was this place? He couldn't _breathe-_

Peter burst out of the shower: that glass box made him feel claustrophobic. Harry, sprawled in the tub with an empty bottle of whiskey, sluggishly pointed at a towel rack, "Y'can use all those. They're new."

Dripping water on the floor, the brunet wordlessly snagged a towel. Out. _Don't look at me. Don't_ look _at me_. He struggled into his trousers without his pants, shoving the soaked underwear into his pocket, while drying his hair haphazardly. He repeated her name like a mantra in his head because he couldn't believe he had forgotten someone merely twenty minutes after meeting them. _Felicia? Where's Felicia?_ Harry's eyes were so pale and blue that Peter would have believed him to be blind if that gaze wasn't locked onto him.

"Oh, commando? That's hot," Harry turned his gaze to his empty bottle mournfully. "No more whiskey."

"I have to go," he stated, though his voice sounded a bit strangled. Peter briefly wondered what would happen if he broke down in the bathroom. "Enjoy your drinks, Harry." He wrung out the bottom of his T-shirt in the sink closest to the door before leaving. His hands were trembling and the tips of his fingers felt numb; unable to grip the doorknob, he uselessly fumbled with it, a terrible sob choking out of his mouth. It was stifled as soon as it escaped, but the horror continued to seep in.

"Peter, Peter," Harry was calling for his attention. "Peter, I'm _hard_."

"What the _hell_ ," Peter cursed, at both his inept hands and the statement. _Open the door, Parker. Close your fingers and open the door you fucking-_ The door clicked open and he practically stumbled out before shutting it with the back of his foot.

Harry called pathetically from the other side, "Peter, don't leave." The brunet assumed the sounds of banging were from stumbling out of the tub. "Let's get drunk! It'll be fun, I promise-"

Felicia was still seated on the white bed, sipping elegantly at her wine. Dazzling eyes met brown and Peter forgot how to breathe. It was almost tragic that such a beautiful girl suffered like this. Harry had yet to come out, so he stuttered through his words as fast as possible, "Felicia. If you need- if you don't want to be here-" He dimly heard the door click and silence instantly enveloped the room. Peter's voice died and desperation clawed at his esophagus. _Speak, Parker. Speak, for God's sake-_ "My house." _Oh God._

He didn't remember picking up his sodden jacket and leaving.

* * *

"Peter, honey, why do you smell like alcohol?" Aunt May had asked him the moment he surged into the house. She had a worried expression on her face, with her lips downturned and her eyes anxious. _But what about Felicia? Who would be anxious for Felicia?_ He wanted to tell his aunt everything, but he didn't want to bother explaining; all he wanted to do was lie down.

 Fatigue. "I...there was alcohol at..." Who? Which name did he say? "...at his place. I left as soon as I saw it," Lie, "but some of it got spilled on me." Lie. Aunt May had ushered him up to his room without another word.

Peter's stomach churned horribly and he felt his chest spasm while collapsing onto his unmade bed. Face pressed against a cold pillow, Peter closed his eyes.

_Walking. That's all he remembered. He treaded down a winding road, endlessly twisting and turning but never diverging into two. It was a mindless trek to nowhere, but it was soothing because all he had to do was walk. No need to worry about where to go if there's only one route._

_Up ahead, he saw a figure collapsed on the street. Smelling the fragrance of cotton candy, Peter realized it was the fallen body of Felicia Hardy. The bruise on her face spread to half her face and her pale neck was snapped, bent in an odd direction. She looked awfully cold in her silk pajamas._

_Peter turned, horrified yet unable to move. He planned to leave with the intent of calling for help, but the cement track had vanished. It had been replaced with a mountain of carcasses and suddenly the stench of rotting flesh struck him. He didn't see any faces in particular, but he knew that everyone was in that pile: his parents, his aunt and uncle, all those kids at school. Their bruised necks were all snapped._

_"Peter," a feminine voice rasped. He whipped around, dizzied by the motion. "Peter, are you okay?" It was Felicia. The bones of her throat pierced the skin of her neck, stabbing out from beneath. She was bleeding so heavily, even more so because she was speaking, and Peter could see her exposed pulse thrumming weakly._

_"Peter," Felicia murmured, her reddened lips barely moving. Blood smeared across her white teeth and spread further while she spoke. "Are you okay?"_

_He couldn't articulate his fright over the tight ball of muscle forced down his esophagus. Couldn't hear over the panting of his own breath. The scent of cotton candy morphed into the pungent sort that stung his nostrils and burned his eyes. He lost all control of his legs and dropped to his knees while staring helplessly while the girl's decayed eyes and yellowed sclera withered into her skull. She continued to look at him, too. Continued to speak though her teeth turned brown with rot.  Her cheeks peeled off, exposing the raw muscle and molars beneath._

_"Peter," she said, though her teeth fell out at each syllable. "Are you okay?"_

_She twitched horribly as her neck slowly bent back into place, though her spinal cord was only pushed out further. Peter realized that her ligaments had been replaced with doll joints. The ball sockets on her shoulders and elbows cracked ominously as she crept closer._

_"Peter," he sounded like a broken record, her plastic hand slithering up his dirty converse. He could only watch in horror as each finger individually clasped shut around his ankle. "Are you okay?"_

_She dragged her body up with the unnatural strength of her arms, gripping and releasing her clacking hands up Peter's clothing until her lolling head was mere inches from his own. He was frozen, unable to blink his eyes in terror as her dried lips gaped open. Feeling a severe pain at the base of his abdomen, his eyes shot downward and he gagged._

_Felicia's shriveled hand was underneath his shirt, her skeletal fingertips digging into his side until his skin blossomed open. Her hand dug into his arteries, poking through his intestines and pulling until one came loose. He swallowed dryly while she smiled wistfully, plowing her fingers into countless blood vessels yet never looking away. She held the very same expression Peter had seen on her face when she found the Château Lafite-Rothschild. "Peter, are you okay?"_

Peter snapped opened his eyes. Or so he thought. Encased in complete darkness, he was unable to tell if his eyes were open or not. The stabbing pain at his abdomen was relentless, so he hesitantly reached into the pocket of his jacket in morbid curiosity. Would his guts spill out and cover the bed? He quickly dismissed the thought when he felt the sharp edges of multiple small boxes. Curious, he pulled out the five boxes and used the light of his phone to see.

They were red Marlboro cigarettes.

'Filter cigarettes...Marlboro...20 class A cigarettes,' Peter's mind processed slowly. 'But I never took any cigarettes. Who-' _Oh._

Peter clutched the boxes to his chest and finally cried.


	3. Delete

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I screwed myself over. I don't live in an apartment. I have no idea how apartments work, but the whole story wouldn't make sense if Peter went to school in Midtown because why the hell would Tony Stark go to a school in freaking Midtown? Why would he go to a school that wasn't private? He's rich? So I'm keeping all that stuff as open as possible because I SCREWED MYSELF OVER. I WASN'T THINKING. Apartments? Schools? Locations? Oh man...  
> Also. Ugh, that feeling when you messed up big time because of a previous chapter. IT'S ONLY THE THIRD CHAPTER BUT THINGS ARE MOVING TOO FAST (are they?). WHAT DO I DO. The downside to writing without a plan, everybody. Everything is bad.  
> Also also! I didn't spend as much time editing this one. Usually it takes me a couple days but, I mean, I rushed to get this one out. Okay, so I know it should be quality over quantity, but I promised myself "WEEKLY UPDATES! SUNDAYS!" and at this rate, it wouldn't have happened. (I'm sorry.)

**Delete**

Despite the heavy weight of exhaustion tugging at his eyelids, Peter couldn't sleep. Even when darkness gave way to the sunlight, which arrived with the discordant chirping of birds and rumbling car engines, he was awake for it all. At one point, he thought he might lose his mind because his mornings and afternoons started blurring together. The gears in his head were rusty from disuse and his eyes were unable to focus on anything but the infinitesimal dust particles aimlessly floating about. Every morning, he opened his eyes to reach for his glasses with violently quaking hands and stood up with weak knees that shook beneath his weight. Nausea assaulted his head if he made any sudden movements.

He became dependent on Monster energy drinks to open his eyes every morning. In truth, his reliance on a sixteen ounce can of shit was pathetic. A hundred and sixty milligrams of caffeine just to get through another monotonous twenty four hours? Was the risk of cardiac arrest worth it? the headaches and the migraines? The only good thing it did was keep him awake while everything else was amplified to the worst it could be. Dizziness stalked him throughout the day and he couldn't walk without stumbling every now and then; hell, his nerves were on overdrive so often he became more prone to accidents than he was before.

But it was worth it. It was all worth it. No matter how much worse his memory became and how many more injuries he painted on himself, everything was worth it because he had become addicted to the distance he felt. He adored the muscle spasms and the aching in his bones. Nobody could _touch_ him and Peter had fallen in love.

One day, out of sick curiosity, he drank two cans of Monster. He told himself that he just 'forgot' he had already taken his fix. He was a fantastic liar; so fantastic, in fact, that George Orwell himself would be impressed. After all, the teenager hadn't slept for three days, so such 'mistakes' were forgivable.

The bus was quiet, since it was six in the morning, and the usually gentle sway of the bus felt more like the fierce rocking of a ship caught in a storm. Peter spent the hour leaning his sweaty forehead against the window, staring limply outside as his breath fogged up the window in short irregular bursts; alas, the distorted colors did nothing to soothe his stomach, so he shut his eyes and fell into an uneasy nap while suppressing the need to eject projectile. The ride ended too soon as his glassy eyes snapped open at the squeaking of the brakes. Cold sweat plastered his messy hair to his forehead.

After waiting for the last student to leave the vehicle, he eased his way out of the seat and tossed his tattered bag onto his back. He managed a few steps before abruptly choking a sour taste that gushed into his mouth. Forcing himself to swallow it, he mechanically lurched towards the towering front doors. Another wave of stomach acid shot up to his mouth and he had to cover his face while shoving his way to the restroom because vomit was spurting out of his nostrils. Without locking the door to the stall, he bent over the toilet and promptly retched into the bowl. Since he barely ate for the past weeks, his body rejected liquids rather than solids; his stomach coiled and he continued throwing up bitter sugar and caffeine until he was dry heaving. The curdling stench itself made it hard to stop gagging, but he managed to stop and flush. His entire face was drenched in sweat and vomit (and saliva) and it was so disgusting he couldn't bear to look at himself in the mirror as he splashed water onto himself. His nose burned and he heaved again before messily gargling.

Peter skipped his first class and hid in a stall while chewing gum and breathing deeply, dazed yet content with the emptiness he felt. He reveled in the pain his shuddering ribs left behind every time he took a breath. Puke itself was filthy, but he liked the remnants of scalding heat (especially if he had a nice mint gum to intensify the burn even more) and the dull pain in his torso. It was fucked up, so he didn't dare think about it more than he had to because _thinking_ made it worse than it had to be. Mindlessness...that's the state of mind Peter wanted to be in. Perpetually.

He went to his next class, English, and regretted it the instant he stumbled into the classroom after detecting the unconventional arrangement of seats. Projects. He took a seat and awaited class to start. A short blonde girl with doll-like cerulean eyes and pearl earrings presented first. Now, he was supposed to take notes but he was too busy staring at her golden ponytail, which bounced as she spoke animatedly. She pushed her bangs out of her hair with her middle finger and Peter thought it was the most endearing thing he had ever seen. Her pink lips shimmered from the reflection of the SmartBoard behind her and the light made her hair look like a halo. It bothered him that he didn't remember her name, but he soon forgot about it because he was the next victim up. Frankly, his presentation was shit compared to hers.

There were three Chinese instructors, who had traveled abroad to observe the American educational system, seated in the back. Their pleased expressions twisted with disappointment after Peter spaced out in the middle of answering a question. Identifying the familiar churning sensation in his stomach, he dug his blunt nails into his skin in order to focus; instead, his vision was darkening and his pupils were darting frantically because he didn't know if it was him or the room that was swaying. Reality was being eaten by small dots that looked like static on a television screen.

"Peter?" the teacher's voice sounded muffled in his ears as his breath quickened. He could hardly see her sharp eyes glaring at him from over her black glasses. "You were saying?" His knees nearly gave out when Mrs. Schurz impatiently cleared her throat and tapped her red pen against her clipboard. The teenager was mortified, but it began to feel dreamlike.

He had forgotten what he was talking about. What class was this? Peter stared at her for a minute because he couldn't identify who she was, "I-I was saying...uh. The-the Romeo and Juliet...sexual undertones by- sorry, what was the question? Sorry." It was awfully dark and it took him a moment to realize his eyes were shut. Snapping his eyes open, he asked once more because he hadn't heard. Couldn't call himself a Parker if his luck wasn't absolute garbage, right? Double negative. He didn't bother wondering if he answered the inquiries properly in the end. Didn't bother looking at anything but the ground as he left.

His legs didn't fail him until the afternoon bell shrieked. Lunch. It was a tiresome ordeal: bodies were pushing and shoving while the green hallways reverberated with the endless chatter of both children and adults. Rather than "lunch", it was more like absolute chaos. Forty five minutes packed with thousands of people congregating in one of three large halls: the North Cafe, the South Cafe, or the North Gym. The queues were lengthy, winding around corners and occupying two hallways at once, and broad. There was never enough space to walk without bumping into someone, which was why Peter spent all of his time waiting on line.

Line-picking was an extremely imperative decision to Peter because he wanted to spend as much time as possible looking natural while doing absolutely nothing at all. There were four lines to choose from, two of which were opposite each other and led to a single extended area that sold sandwiches, chicken and chips, crisps, and a daily special. These were directly outside the two cafes and often blocked the entrance. The third one was located inside the North cafe, selling wraps, and the fourth could be found in the center of the North Gym. People-wise, the line leading to the South cafe had the most. It was also incredibly slow since a newbie was learning how to work the cash register; however, the line leading to the North cafe recently started selling four-dollar salads. Peter had made the mistake of joining the line until he realized that, unless he bought a salad, he would be pushed to the front. It was a huge hit amongst the girls, but Peter thought it was ridiculously expensive for a bowl of grass. Logically, the cost of livestock should be more expensive than foods grown from the ground. Peter wasn't made of money. Anyhow. Duration-wise, the wrap line had the most people for the longest amount of time. It was also a good choice because people cut all the time, so the movement was all the slower; however, the one downside was the line monitor, who was a towering gray-haired man with a stern look permanently imprinted on his face. He was a poor line monitor, considering how many students got away with cutting, but somehow noticed Peter's tendency of ditching the line when he got close to the front. It led to an embarrassing intervention where Peter shifted the blame on his forgetfulness. Did he forget his money for three days straight? Yes, he did. Was he a suspicious individual? Absolutely not.

He continued his daily excursions, slipping out usually unnoticed (because nobody cared about anything that didn't concern them on a personal level) and returning to the back. If one line got too short, he migrated to a longer one.

It wasn't to say that Peter never bought anything: there was only so much avoiding he could do before someone caught on. Every now and then, he would buy a water bottle and subtly flaunt it in front of all the line monitors to burn the image into their memories. He wasn't oblivious: he could feel their gaze, and the last thing he needed was one of the line monitors swooping in and ruining everything.

He continued this tradition the day he ingested twice the amount of caffeine as usual, waiting motionless on a random line because he didn't have the strength to think. Perhaps it had something to do with standing still for a prolonged amount of time, but his knees buckled spectacularly when he took a step forward. His brain didn't register the fall until he crashed face-first into someone's back and slid off in an awkward attempt to right himself. He collapsed onto the ground with his face burning with humiliation and scrambled back up using the tiled walls to right himself.

"What- are you okay?"

"Oh my God, are you okay?"

" _Dude!_ "

His fantastic tumble disoriented him terribly and his knees shook from his weight, but he blurted, "I'm fine, I'm fine. Sorry." Blood rushed to his face and, feeling the blush overtake his cheeks, he dropped his head. Hands trembling from shock, Peter broke out in a cold sweat as he felt irregular spasms underneath his skin. In a matter of seconds, he had become the helpless freak show in the cage. The one who was seared with a brand from the collective gaze of his peers. The one who could hear the laughter from beyond the bars as it sliced through the haze yet be unable to protect himself from its blade. _But they'll forget, like they forget everything else._ Because this was a slip-up and it didn't define Peter. _And I'll forget because that's what I do best._ Nothing defined Peter.

Cursing his luck, the teenager tottered dangerously out of the line, never daring to look up in fear of sharing eye contact with anyone. His eyes were practically closed as three days worth of sleeplessness suddenly cracked him in the face. He didn't know where he was going because willpower was the only factor keeping him moving. He just wanted to be alone because he couldn't breathe-

Breathe? Nothing registered in his mind until he comprehended that the burning in his chest was from asphyxiation. It was nothing like the tightness he usually felt when he was exceptionally horrified; rather, this was more like that stage in drowning where the chest is already compressed as much as possible and there was no intake of air no matter how much he inhaled. He wondered if anyone ever drowned surrounded by oxygen, but realized that it was called suffocation. His frantic heartbeat thrashed against his rib cage as he was doused in panic. Peter kept choking instead of breathing, and no matter how quiet he tried to be, the only sound that reached his ears was that of his own hiccoughs. He clawed at his throat with uncoordinated fingers and started wheezing. Something wet rolled down his cheeks.

'Calm down, Parker. Think numbers. Oxygen by volume. Twenty point nine-five percent, minus water vapor. Air pressure at sea level. One hundred one point three-two-five kP. Fourteen point seven psi. Elevation of continents is-'

Stepping on his untied shoelaces, Peter tripped and crumpled to the ground like a marionette with no strings. He couldn't find it in himself to get back up since the adrenaline pumping in his veins had run out. There were only a couple people roaming the halls, but they didn't bother him because he looked like one of those students waiting for class to begin. Would it have made a difference if they did? Did Peter need help? _Breathe_. No, he didn't need help.

In the distance, he heard rhythmic thuds and contemplated how nice it would be if that was the tempo of his heart. Before he knew it, large calloused hands had hauled him up by the arms and he was bobbing lifelessly as his body was recklessly dragged. Vaguely, a tuneless whistle danced in the air along with the smell of Mexican takeout and fruity aftershave. Peter was quite sure they weren't moving fast, but his vision blurred and he felt the same dizziness he experienced on the morning bus. He couldn't feel his legs. Someone was talking to him, but he couldn't hear it over the sound of sobs. Who was sobbing? It was infuriatingly undignified.

It was Peter.

 _No, no, slip-ups don't define me_. But is it a slip-up if it's twice in a row? _Shut up. That's not true._ He had tricked himself. Tricked himself again and again- _No, this is a mistake._ And he knew he was lying to himself. _Which part? Which one is the lie?_ And that he'd keep doing it until he died. _Which one is the lie?_

"Hey, hey, you gotta focus on- _hey_ ," something was waving in front of his eyes. A hand? Peter's dilated eyes failed to zero in on anything. "Breathe, buddy. Breathe with me. We're gonna fucking Simon Says this shit."

His thoughts were physically wrenched from his body as a face was shoved into his field of vision. It was speaking to him, squeezing his cheeks with two large hands that felt nice against his skin. " _Listen_ , you have to breathe. Look at- no, no stop that! Don't think I don't see your eyes do that weird dilating shit- _look_ at me. Yeah, there we go." And then the guy did this exaggerated breathing by opening his mouth open wide to inhale and puckering his lips to exhale. "You're not listening to me! I'm trying to _help_ you-"

'But I'm trying,' Peter wanted to say. Wanted to scream it at the top of his lungs until they were raw because, out of all of his lies, that one was true. _No, that one's a lie, too._ 'I swear I'm trying.' _No, you're not._ He wanted to curl into a tight ball and get away from his thoughts because _they_ were the bad guys with the pretty white teeth and the white suits. _There is no bad guy in real life_. But there _was_ and it was _Peter_. Peter was the bad guy. 'I'm trying-' _You're just looking at everything in black and white_. _Life isn't a movie_. Peter's thoughts were the bad guys. 'I swear-' _You're weak, but you act like such a smart ass trying to prove to yourself that you're not. So you lied and lied and now you can't get out. You're stuck but you're in so deep that nobody can help you and you're going to die like this. Died in a hole you created yourself! Have you ever heard of anything so pathetic-_

"Wade, you're making it worse!"

"I'm _trying_ -"

 _-just like Felicia and Harry. You thought they were fucked up, didn't you? Left Felicia to die and she became a puppet. Strung up like a pretty doll and you tried to ignore it. Forgot about it like you always do but she'll haunt you._ But that wasn't true. Felicia was nice and she would never do that. _Haunt you forever because we're all bad guys. That's the answer. There never were good guys._ But bad guys couldn't exist without good guys. _That's why there's nothing_. What? _The answer is nothing-_

"Peter?"

Nothing defined him.

 _Breathe_.

He didn't belong anywhere.

_Breathe._

That's right. Nothing breaks in oblivion because nothing can't break.

_But it hurts. Why does it hurt if there's nothing?_

Everything was jumbled. The voices in his head contradicted themselves too often and there was nothing to believe in. The good cop and bad cop switched rolls whenever Peter wanted to label one. Believe in nothing.

'Not even in myself?'

"Peter, it's me, Steve. Can you hear me?"

Peter recognized that name. He didn't know where he had heard it from, but it yanked his conscience back to reality. Wiping his face with the sleeve of his jacket, he scoped his surroundings first. It was an unoccupied classroom- namely, Mr. _D's_ unoccupied classroom, based on the numerous quotes taped onto the walls. He himself was leaning against the wall beside the door. There were shadows climbing up the walls and they looked terribly lonely, like trapped souls. Very Charlotte Perkins Gilman-esque.

" _There_ we go. Fuck, you scared me so bad I was thinking about all these ways to hide a body 'cause I didn't want to go to jail if you died," another voice said. He sounded much quirkier than the latter.

Peter didn't answer, too busy making figures out of the shadows to respond. His eyelids drooped and shoulders sagged, the erratic beating of his heart slowed to a much more stable one. He felt like he was floating high above everyone else. Nothing to keep him grounded but the odd smell of tacos and citrus, which had to be _the_ weirdest combination of scents in existence.

"So," the oddball continued talking. "We just totally saved your life."

Peter cleared his throat and shakily replied, "Yeah. Thanks." His voice cracked by the end. Tearing his eyes away from the outlines on the wall, he turned his gaze toward the two kneeling teenagers in front of him. Their large muscles were sloped as they bent over to look him in the eyes. It made him feel exceedingly uncomfortable because _nobody_ looked at him like that. A phantom hand tightened around his throat as he realized that these were strangers. Strangers that had mouths and could _speak_. They had capabilities...blackmail-

"Wade, you made everything worse," Steve- oh, _Adonis?_ \- sighed, massaging the crease on his brows. "Are you okay?" Peter recalled Adonis and his false apologies. His pale eyelashes that would have caught the sunlight if the room's shades were drawn. His sharp cheekbones and outrageously muscular biceps. Seemed like the Adonis in the Greek myths was reborn in the modern age. He wondered if this one would be betrayed again. Betrayed by the very gods he worshipped. Peter loathed Greek mythology: all the higher powers were dreadfully selfish.

What was the question? "Yeah, thanks," he repeated lamely.

"Should we tell-" Wade. Peter didn't recognize him at all, but he didn't mind. There was only so much chatter he could tolerate and the past five minutes or so already put him at his limit. Wade was an attractive guy with ruffled brown hair, unlike Adonis's simple yet precise combover. A faint scar interrupted his eyebrows and his nose was slightly crooked, as if it had been broken several times before. He reminded Peter of a battered puppy, even more so because of the pretty droop in his eyes. Sad puppy.

" _No_ ," Peter assured vehemently, the slouch in his back disappearing in an instant. He stared at Steve's blue eyes, then at Wade's brown, before leaning back again. His eyes burned like he had stared at the sun for too long. "No, it's alright. That was- I don't know what that was, but it won't happen again. As long as you don't say anything."

He made them promise and no word got out. Everyone forgot about it, so Peter forgot too because that was what he did best.

"You should come back to the philosophy club. We haven't had new members because no one's really interested-"

Delete.

* * *

Midterms were a week away and everyone was scrambling while Peter fought the heaviness of his eyelids, stagnant amongst the chatter in his isolated bubble. Students complained about cramming and teachers worried about finishing their lesson plans. Time, for them, was running out. For him, it had already run out.

Lying supine on his messy bed, which was all he seemed to do these days, a wave of exhaustion swept over him. He felt like he was standing on a trail that forked but eventually converged to one result: fatigue. Whether he stayed in bed or went out, weariness shadowed him without fail. There was no escape. No matter where he was or what he was doing, thoughts of sleep plagued him. Some days he lost his mind and allowed himself to hope for the day he wouldn't wake up; alas, the sun had its own schedule that Peter was forced to adhere to.

He was never one to dwell on any of his deliberations since he had so many, but his thoughts were incessantly shoving themselves towards him so he had no choice _but_ to consider them. He grimaced at their deformed bodies and prodded them with hesitant fingers. Having lost control of his own mind, all he could do was stare. His self-reflections and memories fused into an overwhelming black glob that consumed everything in its path; at some point, it had latched onto Peter and prevented him from living in the present. Ironic, for someone who had such an awful memory.

It made him feel lonely. He hated it. It was like the bogeyman, crawling out from underneath his bed in the dead of night and wrapping its cold fingers around his neck. Without the warmth of those around him, Peter was vulnerable to it. Sometimes, he felt it even when he was surrounded by his peers. He detested those situations the most.

Now, there was nothing wrong with being alone; rather, Peter liked it. However, loneliness was a different case. It was a dungeon and the key was on the other side of the bars. His prison mates were his thoughts and they whispered terrible things. Things he had forgotten. They were the reason he changed when he was alone and why nobody else knew. Without the prying eyes of those around him, Peter was a completely different person.

'Enough analogies,' he thought to himself with a nod. 'But wasn't there that one time during school when I-' When he what? _Broke down- everyone saw-_

Delete. Delete. Delete.

Five packs of cigarettes were carefully hidden in the back of his drawer, but he never had the energy to go to his desk. He studied on his bed because it was the closest surface to the door and slept on his scattered study guides and pencils; it was uncomfortable as hell because he woke up with indents from textbooks, but he didn't mind. He rather fancied pressing on those indents with his fingers: the throbbing pain felt nice. It was a replacement of sorts, of mental feeling for physical. (And it wasn't as obvious as cutting, though it had crossed his mind. Cutting took too much energy.)

"Peter, honey, all you do is study. Why don't you go outside? The weather is beautiful today," piped up a woman's voice. "Play tennis with your friends! You love tennis, don't you?"

He stood up and swayed at the foot of his bed for a moment. Tennis? He didn't even play tennis. His bones were creaking and he felt nauseous from the altitude. His legs shook. He definitely wouldn't do anything that required physical labor, nor would he play with his 'friends'. Who would he invite anyway? Should he take the cigarettes? But where would he go to smoke? No, he was too tired. Maybe if he stayed quiet enough, they would think he left. He just wanted to be alone.

Peter snagged the apartment keys, a green plastic lighter, and pack of cigarettes before leaving. Might as well. The front door clanged shut as he trudged off through the narrow white hallways to the lower floors. It was easy to forget that he didn't live in a house anymore when he was cooped up inside.

'Where should I go?' he pondered to himself, staring at the endless waves of pedestrians undulating beneath the brilliant shards of sunlight. He stepped around a girl who was occupying the steps to the apartment complex; she was smoking while tapping away at her phone. 'There's nowhere to go. Bike?' His inner musings had been reduced to simple words: thinking too hard gave him nasty headaches. Retrieving his bike from the rack, he rolled himself towards the streets and took off. A destination had yet to come to mind, so he simply weaved through cars and lorries. 'Alleys.'

Where was he? He kept pedaling, taking lefts and rights at random. There were so many alleyways in New York that asked to be exploited.

He began recognizing familiar landmarks, like the  dodgy 7 Eleven that was rumored to be influenced by drug cartels, though he didn't know exactly where he was yet. Picking the nearest alley, he slunk into it before he wandered into a neighborhood he was familiar with: if he knew it, chances were other people knew it as well. The last thing he wanted to do was meet any students while smoking.

The ground was littered with crushed cans of soda and flattened cigarette boxes. It reeked of garbage and weed, but he fumbled out his pack of cigarettes anyway while sliding down the wall and tearing the lid open. Peter stuck a cig between his teeth and pocketed the rest. It took a couple tries with the lighter, but he got it to work and brought it to the butt of the cigarette. He attempted to inhale, but coughed up a lung instead. At the back of his mind, a distorted voice instructed him suck with his mouth. It caught.

"Thanks," he snorted, playing with the warm smoke in his mouth a bit before exhaling slowly. He was mesmerized by it as it left his mouth before taking another short drag. The flaming ring burned closer, leaving behind a trail of ash. With the next drag, his lungs burned because he didn't cool it down in his mouth. Ouch. He hacked violently and the ash fell onto his clothes; even though it felt like he was being branded, but he didn't move to flick it off.

Peter didn't feel the therapeutic effects because he was too caught up with the act itself, but it took his mind off everything so he considered it a win. He had no idea if he was smoking properly, but it didn't hurt so he assumed it was. Whether it was the repetition of smoking or the nicotine that alleviated stress, Peter decided that looking at the smoke leave his mouth was the best. Very pretty.

Taking another drag, Peter got sick of the odor of garbage and left the alley. No one was here, so he may as well smoke out in the open. Tapping off the ash, Peter took a seat on one of the apartment stairs and stared. He couldn't see anything: only the blurred outline of people and buildings. Nobody spared a second glance at him and it was perfect until-

"Pete?" The universe was beating a dead horse. "I didn't know you wore contact lenses." He didn't.

Peter quickly dug the butt of the stick into the ground and squinted up to see the approach of a feminine outline. "I forgot my glasses," he offered as an excuse. She looked familiar, but he couldn't quite place the name. The girl took a seat and the aroma of cotton candy wafted into his nose. "Who are you?"

"Felicia," she reminded. Peter wanted to groan, but manners dictated that such greetings were improper and downright rude, so he held it in. Felicia opened a lot of doors in his memories that he'd wanted to keep locked. "D'you have anymore smokes?"

He passed her the whole pack, along with the lighter, hoping she'd take them and leave. It wouldn't be long before the guilt set in because it was likely their conversations wouldn't stray far from-

"Harry misses you," she prompted after a drag. The restrained groan slid past his lips and her laughter carried through the breeze like wind chimes. "Me, too. He wouldn't stop talking about you and- man, it was annoying. Guess it was a bad idea to bring you there, after all."

"Sorry," Peter replied halfheartedly, finding an interest in the traffic before him. "How are you? How's Harry?"

"After a week of avoiding me, that's the first thing you say, huh?" He could feel her gaze searing into the side of his cheek, so he didn't look anywhere but at the blur. "But I know you've been having it tough. Isn't hard to forget people when you've got issues of your own."

"Huh?" Peter looked at her in alarm. Issues? Peter? Never. "What issues?" He felt icy dread creeping up from his feet.

"Don't play dumb, Pete," she took another drag and blew it into his face. Bitch. "Heard you fainted or something. Straight up collapsed while you were standin' on the lunch line."

"Where...where'd you hear that from? Who?" Because that simply wasn't true. Peter never collapsed and nobody saw. _But you did. Didn't make sure everyone forgot, did you._

"My girl, Vanessa," her eyes never left Peter and the terror sunk in through his pores. "Vanessa Carlysle. Ever heard of her? Wade's girlfriend. He's the one who helped you, right? Him and Steve."

He didn't say anything. Didn't know what to say because he had made them _promise_ , but he didn't have the right to be upset because this wasn't kindergarten. Promises meant nothing. Peter knew that, but he kept forgetting. _Poor Parker._ "That's not...that's not true."

"Yeah, it is," Felicia kept talking and she sounded so sure of herself that he wanted to strangle her. She didn't know anything, she wasn't _there_. "You fell right in front of Wade and he tailed you since he was worried- 'cause he's a pretty decent guy even if he's an annoying dick- and then you fell again and you started crying or something. Wade had to take you to some abandoned classroom."

His jaws clamped shut so hard he thought it might break. "That's not- you weren't there. You don't know that. You didn't see anything!" He hadn't even touched a Monster since the incident five days ago, but his hands were shaking like some withdrawal symptom. "That's not true-"

"Hey, calm down," Behind the thin veil of sympathy, Felicia looked ridiculously pleased and Peter wondered if his hands were shaking to shut her up. Shaking to wrap his fingers around that neck and wring it until she sobbed apologies, but that wouldn't stop him. He'd keep his fingers there until her bright eyes turned dark and her expression turned blank- _Who do you want to kill more: her or yourself?_ "I can't use this against you- shit, this isn't even a big deal. I can't use it even if I wanted to...Vanessa made me swear our friendship on it.

"But listen," Felicia scooted closer to Peter, leaning her silky hair against his tense shoulder, "I get it. I get _you_. I admit, I didn't get it at first, but I got it now and that's what counts right?" She paused and he could feel her grin against the cloth of his jacket. "We're both fucked up. You hid yours better than me, but you can't anymore. _I_ found out- hey, it's okay. It's okay.

"You're not alone anymore," her minty breath caressed his neck. "You've got me." Peter glared at her, unable to speak as his throat was lodged with fury, and she took it as a signal to continue. "Friends, Pete. Companions. Us two against the world- heard that from Sherlock. It's got a nice ring to it, doesn't it? Anyway, we confide in each other. Help each other out-"

"I don't need help," Peter cut in, shaking Felicia off his shoulder. _You messed up, Pete! She knows! Two slip-ups and this is the third. Three strikes, Pete!_ "I don't. That was just a mistake- that wasn't...that-" _Three strikes and you're out!_ He wanted Felicia to be quiet. Didn't want to hear another word slip past her pretty lips, but his limbs were so heavy.

"See there? That's denial. You're denying you need help and I know why," He couldn't move his legs. "I did a little snooping. Asked Tony, this tech genius- had to make out with him a little first- to look you up. I didn't let him see the contents, trust me. He doesn't care about anyone but himself- a real narcissist, that guy. Anyway, I read that you live with your aunt and uncle. Dead parents are always tough, but then you got sent to some therapist in elementary school _before_ they died, so you were fucked up even before-"

 _No. No no no-_ "That's not true! That's not- _shut up!_ Shut up, shut up-" Nobody was supposed to know about that. "You're not supposed to know- _nobody_ was supposed to know-"

 " _Listen_ to me, Pete," her frail arms were like chains and her fingers clamped around his arm, "I just want- what's so bad about friends? Someone to talk to? Haven't you ever wanted to talk with anyone? Aren't you lonely? This is perfect, Pete- _we're_ perfect. Harry's got too much wrong in the head, so he could never have a normal relationship. But _us_...we've got issues but this is a chance to be friends. We know our issues: we have information against each other. That's the safety net, Pete. We can never betray each other because of it."

What a joke. Two wrongs don't make a right. Peter should have seen it coming- hell, Felicia was so desperate he saw it the day she invited him over. He should reject, in case he gets strung in deeper because she knows Harry and that guy's plain screwed up. _But she understands me. We could be friends, and friends are normal. If I have that, then it's like confirmation. Confirmation of the past four years-_ "...Okay. Okay, friends sounds good." Peter said, willing his racing heartbeat to calm down. The anger drained away and he'd never felt so tired before: socialization should be called an exercise in and of itself.

Felicia beamed, smiling so wide and looking so damn beautiful that Peter caught himself grinning, too. She hugged him, and it was a little uncomfortable because he couldn't move his arms that well, but he wound his arms around her thin waist anyway and let her snuggle against him. He realized she was crying out of happiness, based on the growing dampness in his shirt, so he held her closer and stared unseeingly at the cars.

He discovered the meaning of smiling in the face of death and it wasn't as liberating as he'd heard it would be.


	4. Red String

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So. It’s a bit weird how the one time I said I wanted to release these chapters weekly, I’m super duper late. WELL. I have an excuse! I forgot the responsibilities that seniors in high school are bound to. AKA: College. The whole thing should settle down by February or so, but until then, updates will be little to none. I’M SORRY ;-; Thank you for waiting!

**Red String**

Midterms had arrived and all the stress Peter hadn't felt before was suddenly thrust into his face. He was faced with the realization that the next twelve hours and thirty minutes was ten percent of his final grade for five classes- ten percent, which was usually accumulated in half a marking period (or, approximately, forty or so days). Nine hundred and sixty hours of work, equivalent to a two and a half hour test. It shouldn't have been such a big deal, since midterms were just tests of what had already been learned, but it paralyzed him. Crippled him and left him to the whispers of his doubts. He had never realized the countless failures and disappointments that latched onto his existence until he sat down and _thought_.

It was a vicious cycle, he supposed, to be so afraid of failure, yet not care enough to study. To lie in bed, hounded by thoughts of what he had to do, yet unable to start. If he simplified everything, it wasn't that bad- rather, he _told_ himself it wasn't that bad. It was only three days of testing: go in, take two midterms, and leave within five hours of arrival. The first day covered world language and then English, while the next was science and math. The third day was history, but since there were no other tests following, everyone was let out as soon as it was over. Five hours, five hours, and two and a half hours, or twelve hours and thirty minutes in total. Seven hundred and fifty minutes. Forty five thousand seconds. _Forty five thousand seconds. Enough time to screw everything up, don't you think, Parker? Because you sure screwed yourself over in less than forty-five minutes at that meeting- less than two thousand seven hundred seconds-_

On the bright side, at least he got to go home earlier. Less time at school, more time at home to dread the next two and a half hours. One hundred fifty minutes. Nine thousand seconds. Nineteen hours at home to dread nine thousand seconds at school. One thousand and one hundred and forty minutes to dread nine thousand seconds. Sixty-eight thousand and four hundred seconds- _Quit it, Parker._

Midterms had arrived and left as soon as it came, but by the end of it, Peter didn't want to use another brain cell since there was an excruciating headache growing like a tumor. The side of his head throbbed and the spot behind his eyes hurt terribly. No amount of pressing or rubbing his eyelids did any good and it was irritating the hell out of him because it was the type of pain he hated: the kind that stung, like cuts. He hated cuts. (If anything, he was more of a bruises kind of guy. He liked the ache.)

He had tried cutting, out of curiosity, on the second day of midterms- had read about it longer before. There wasn't anything that particularly triggered him to act; rather, it was the lack there of. Anyhow, some forum on the web said cutting was therapeutic in that it gave people a sense of control. Apparently, it was addictive and made their fingers itch if they didn't have a razor within reach, and they liked watching their cuts turn red because it made their skin look prettier even though the scar itself was ugly. Peter thought they looked like thin crimson bracelets and would often wonder what his arm would look like if he cut it with a steak knife. _But you know it's socially unacceptable, so you would never say it aloud._

He didn't really know what he was doing, other than the fact that cutting vertically would lead to death: common knowledge. Peter knew he was supposed to use a razor, but he didn't own one since his uncle had bought him an electronic shaver (not that he had the hair to use it yet). After rifling through the kitchen and holding a knife to his arm, he realized how intimidating it was and abandoned it, immediately checking it off the mental checklist of ‘items to avoid when mutilating yourself’.

He ended up using the blade of a handheld pencil sharpener, screwing off the bolt with the corner of a plastic ruler. With a quick sweep of a cotton ball soaked in alcohol, he had staved off any possibility of infections and procured a quasi razor that fit quite nicely in between his fingers. Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he pulled up his sleeves and held it to his wrist, and he began to understand why people might find cutting attractive. Nothing quite gets the blood running like knowing a cut and a bathtub full of water could end a life.

He added a little pressure to his skin, not enough to break it, but just enough to revel in another shot of adrenaline coursing through his fingertips. Without another thought, he slid the blade across his skin and cursed because it _hurt_. Nothing as romantic or as euphoric as the Internet said it would be like, but he watched as his uneven scratch flushed anyway. Small beads of scarlet crawled out of the wound like spiders, which wriggled out from underneath his skin. He led the blood down a trail created with a finger and watched them escape down his arm, leaving behind a dirty trail. He wiped everything off as soon he felt it slithering too close to his elbow, revulsion causing him to purse his lips.

A brief vision flashed across his eyes and he imagined arachnids using their legs to peel open his flesh so that thousands more could scatter out. It was like a wave of red limbs, scaling each other's exoskeletons in a race to escape the prison that was Peter's body. He fantasized that the pulse he felt on his wrists was the work of the insects struggling to tear open his veins and squeeze through his muscles.

He didn't know how long he stood there daydreaming, but it wasn't until he felt an itch beneath his skin that he moved. He was abruptly seized by an unspeakable fury, the kind that burned in his chest like a wildfire and soiled his vision with red, that made him breathe quicker because he wanted nothing more than to lash out and _destroy_ because he couldn't bear to look at another indication of his own existence. _Let the spiders out. Let them out._ He wanted to scream as his hands shook from rage; however, when he snatched his book bag, filled with binders and papers, and arched his shoulders in order to hurl it into a wall, he stopped. Dropped it and watched it deflate lifelessly to the floor. He planned on sinking to the floor as well, but the sight of his wrist planted another seed of repugnance. It stung, but he made another cut anyways. And then another. Suddenly, he couldn't stop because the spark that had died down was fueled once more by his anger.

Enraged, he slashed at his wrist again and again, sickened yet captivated by the pain to the point he wanted to vomit all over his arm just to watch it rot from the inside. He wanted to watch the bile seep in, merge with the red in his body until his veins carried more disease than blood. All the spiders would twitch pathetically on his forearm, drenched in filth, and Peter would pluck at them with his fingers until he crushed every last one. _Kill them. Watch them burst into specks of blood when you crush them like ticks._ Imagining his arm turn green and sickly from infection, he ran the blade across his skin mindlessly, losing the previously mechanical motion for a much more fervent one. He pressed and released at odd rhythms because he wanted to feel the pain and imagine the edge dig into his skin so deep it got wedged into his white bones. Wanted to bleed enough to swim in it but stay conscious enough to see himself fade. He craved for the kind of gashes that were large enough to thrust his fingers into it and yank out everything, from muscles to bones to ligaments.

'Look at it, look at it,' he was chanting, in his mind, as he dropped the razor and dug his blunt fingernails into the wounds, 'What if I open it? What if I pull so hard that everything rips open and I'll see my own veins pumping? I'll bleed so much it'll look like fucking Niagara Falls and I'll cover this whole room with blood.' _It hurts, it hurts, it hurts-_ 'No, I want more. More pain, more cuts, more bruises- I want everything. I want-' _Spiders-_

Peter sank to the floor, cradling his arm close to his chest as his heart froze like it was steeped in ice-cold water. He didn't want to look at the crimson insects beneath his skin, so he sat still instead, trapped in his own room with nothing to do but listen to the sound of his own scattered breaths. A faint odor of iron floated into his nostrils and his mind was immediately filled with his previous delusions of lying in his blood. His wrist was numb, but he could feel it beginning to prickle. There was an ache in his cheeks that he hadn't realized during his frenzy.

'Smiling,' he massaged his face with his right hand since he couldn't bear to look at the other one, 'I was smiling.' And he recalled it clearly because he _had_ been grinning like a madman while hacking into his left wrist. He had giggled too, felt the vibrations ripple through his shoulders even if he didn't hear it over the roaring of his own thoughts. 'I've gone mad, haven't I?' _You have, Parker. Gone loony. Crazy. Insane. How long do you reckon it'll take before you get sent back to-_ 'Quiet.' _Are you going to start crying?_ No.

Crying took a certain amount of energy Peter didn't have. His tears were more a physiological reaction than a mental collapse because, yes, his arm was in agony. Rather than a full-blown break down, tears ran down his cheeks and he sniffled pathetically while staring at the ferocious cuts on his wrist. They looked like tattered red threads dancing upwards from the base of his hand to the top of his elbow, crying red tears that dripped from his pallid flesh. The numbness was replaced with an intense stinging, so Peter ran it under cold water in the bathroom. He made the mistake of looking in the mirror of his bathroom and, at the sight of his wretched self, began sobbing, coughing up phlegm and saliva as silently as possible because the sounds might trigger something he wasn't prepared to handle. The pain returned the moment he stopped the faucet, but he was too exhausted to stand any longer. He opted to return to the safety of his bed and lie down atop all his schoolwork, bending workbooks and crushing papers while staring listlessly at the bland ceiling. (It was amazing: to see, but not observe. It was safe.) His left arm throbbed to the rhythm of his heart, each beat introducing a wound that felt as if it was the work of a searing whip. It hurt to the point he couldn't even fall asleep despite his worn emotional state.

With nothing to do- or rather, nothing he particularly _wanted_ to do (even if it felt like he might die from the pain…and the irritation from said pain)- he lifted his head to look at his injured arm. The gashes got progressively messier after the first, unpredictable in depth and no longer parallel. Briefly, Peter imagined going back in time to make each cut parallel.

'Or maybe not make my arm look like minced meat,' he thought to himself, rolling down his sleeve haphazardly and willfully ignoring the way his shirt chafed against abused skin. It really hurt. 'This sucks.' He couldn't bear to think too hard about what he had done because that meant accepting how messed up he was. Was it still ignorance if he knew what he was doing? Does it make him less messed up if he _knew_ he was messed up, but didn't accept it? Because he wasn't messed up. Paradox. ("Peter, why is there blood on the floor?" "I had a nosebleed.")

He slept for a total of thirty-two hours that day and the next, missing two suppers, five calls, and seventeen texts due to his comatose state. Five calls and seventeen texts of which were from the one and only Felicia Hardy. So, by the time Friday morning arrived, he was honestly considering his recent 'friendship' with the girl. Peter weighed the pros and cons like Anubis (the Egyptian god of Death with the African golden wolf face that weighed hearts against a feather), dropping each trait on an imaginary scale. It was amazing how many negatives he had stacked up despite barely knowing her for a whole week, but that reflected on him as a person more than Felicia herself: Peter was a sack of crap; Felicia was just plain lonely.

Who wouldn’t be lonely, though? With abusive parents and a blond alcoholic party animal for company. Peter was probably the most normal company she had. Was he proud of it? Yes, but only when he needed a moral boost; other times, he wished she would stop bothering him so much. _Quite terrible of you, Parker._

One of her largest downsides would have to be her inexhaustible appetite for devouring all of his plans in favor of her own. She was like a second sun because, 'Oh, did Peter have any plans? Yes? Peter didn't want to see her? Too bad! The sun shines whether the clouds are there or not. Ad hoc schedules, or none at all.' Peter _did_ enjoy his time together with her (no matter how forced), it was just that he was _tired_ but she still clung to him with this joyful little smile and he couldn't say _no_. It wasn't her fault. At least he was leaving the house more. (Every day, for the past week.) Aunt May was endlessly pleased because she felt he was "picking up" his life again. As if he had ever dropped it. _Except you had, hadn't you? Dropped it and waited for someone else to come and pick it up for you because you couldn't do it alone. Have you ever heard of anything more pathetic?_

He dreaded the end of midterms, regardless of how much he hated the tests themselves, and reveled in the twelve hours and thirty minutes of silence he had before it was shattered. Because Felicia was nice- yeah, really nice and a delight to be with- but she was so damn excited. He thought the marvel in their bullshit friendship would die down in a couple days, but it didn't and that made everything all the scarier. He was tangled in a situation where he agreed in order to avoid confrontation, but ended up in a mess much more complex: Felicia had taken it too seriously- or rather, Peter hadn't taken it seriously enough.

He couldn't back out, whether it be out of guilt (because he had already said yes) or out of cowardice (because he didn't want to know what Felicia would do if he said no after saying yes), so he took responsibility of the consequences. He told himself that he was doing it out of his sense of duty; after all, Uncle Ben had hammered the motto, "With great power comes great responsibility", into his head. Who was Peter to deny it the power to haunt his every decision? It also gave him an excuse to blame his lack of action on, but that was just one of many secrets Peter held close to his heart. At least it was catchy.

Ever since he had ‘experimented’ on himself (because it wasn't _cutting_ -cutting, it was curiosity-cutting), Peter had been unusually angry. He didn't really know why, but the open wounds on his arm might have had something to do with it. Disgusted at his weakness that he'd fall as low as cutting, irritated by the pain but with no one to blame but himself. It was all him, all Peter.

Every time he shifted his left arm, the pain opened another wound- a psychological wound, perhaps- along with a reminder that, "Yes, Parker. You were the one who did this. It's all your fault". The vicious cycle: pain, irritation, then anger. He'd started skipping the blame stage because it was always, and would always be, Peter.

Friday. He was waiting at the vaulted front entrance, sulkily watching students pour out with mixed reactions of either pride or defeat. There was no sign of Felicia for the past ten minutes and he was getting a bit aggravated because _she_ was the one who kept pestering him ("Let's go to the mall today. To celebrate the end of midterms.")

He caught sight of her sleek black hair and approached her, pushing off the wall with a sigh. The aggravation melted away when he saw her bright smile, but the phantom pain in his arm was throbbing at full force. “How was it?”

“Oh, I totally bombed it,” she said airily, flicking away the thought like it was a gnat, “but listen. Harry’s taking me to some private party and he’s got my outfit picked out and everything. He sent me this picture,” she fished out her phone and flashed the screen in his direction. It was a photo of a long sleeveless black dress. “Sequin. I think he had it custom made.” She preened at the thought for a moment. “How much do you think it cost? A thousand? _Two_ thousand? He bought me diamond encrusted earrings, so-”

"I thought you said you wanted to go to the mall today," Peter interrupted, refusing to comment on the dress as the aggravation built up again. He clenched his jaw a little. “You were talking about it from the beginning of midterms.”

"Was I?" A pause, and a mournful gaze crossed her face. “I was.”

"Yeah."

"Sorry. Can we postpone?” a pause, "I'm sorry. You can understand, right? The party…"

Peter knew he should be angry, but he wasn't. Annoyed, sure, because he would have to find a ride back to the apartment, but not mad because it made sense that Harry had to be first. Felicia would put Harry before anyone because he was the one with the money and the one that held her fancy. Harry had to be the one manipulating schedules and making last minute changes, and Felicia had to be the one to bend because that was the only way she could keep him. "Okay." Peter was never important. Not even to himself, but he would never say that out loud (because he wasn’t an _attention_ _whore_ ). "Have fun." Peter wasn't important, and that was okay. He would still bend to Felicia, who was a fantastic hypocrite because she was just like Harry and his money, even if she didn’t know it. She just valued (rich) people and connections.

"Yeah, I'll see you on Monday," he interrupted, not knowing if he pulled off that smile as well as he had hoped. It felt more like a grimace, but Felicia didn’t seem to notice, and Peter was left behind with her trademark cotton candy aroma. He watched her lithe figure disappear.

A sharp pain shot up his injured arm, which had been jostled as someone bumped into him. He felt the scrape of torn skin against the material of his shirt and hissed a curse before shooting a burning stare down at a short blond girl with cerulean eyes and pretty pink lips. Gwen Stacy.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, though she looked surprised at the intensity of his glare and the hostile wrinkle in his brow. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," Peter graced her with a half-hearted grin because Gwen didn't deserve that glare, and slunk away from her. It was out of embarrassment, though he didn’t know if it was because of the slip in his façade or because he had just spoken to _Gwen Stacy_. Gwen Stacy, the golden girl who everyone knew was going places (an Ivy League school, no doubt). He watched her go, her and her bobbing ponytail, until it turned the corner and disappeared.

The traffic didn’t seem to be getting any better, rather, it seemed to be getting a worse; students began congregating at the entrance instead of leaving. Peter abandoned his post on a whim and decided to wander about. There was no late bus, since the day was cut short from midterms, so he would have to ask around for one. No point in worrying his aunt and uncle.

After a very trying hike up the nearest stairwell, Peter began his mindless wandering. The second floor was practically empty, save for a few drained students and proctors straggling about. Nobody spared a glance at him and he continued his trek feeling lighter than he had the day before even if his left arm had been bothering him the whole test, burning terribly against his sleeve; regretfully, there had been no bandages in the apartment. Underneath the luminescent hallway lights, he awkwardly lifted the edge of his sleeve to air out the wounds. It hurt to bend his arm and he couldn't do it without flinching at the sensation of knives jabbing into his wrist.

Before he knew it, his feet had brought him to the science hall, which smelled of pizza. Rather than make his empty stomach growl in hunger, it made him gag. Muffled voices sounded from behind a closed classroom door. A party? There shouldn't have been anyone in the classrooms. He crept toward the sounds, peering into each window he passed by until, lo and behold, he reached the foot of his physics classroom.

"-ing Clint! You fucking piece of _shit_ , you spat all over my shirt," an enraged shriek reached Peter's eardrums. "You contaminated me! Now I have to amputate my chest-"

After an episode of raucous laughter and the vicious clattering of chairs, a slightly smothered reply came, "You signed yourself up for this! The moment you decided to come here instead of your rich people school!"

"Stop! Stop talking; you're spitting!" The sound of thundering footsteps and disgusted yelling pounded inside the room. Though Peter was curious, he decided against peeking inside in case someone saw him. His worn sneakers squeaked as he swiveled around, but he barely took a step before a burst of pain exploded on the back of his head while the smell of pizza clocked him in the face. Peter went sprawling to the ground, slammed by another body, and wheezed as he fell on his injured arm. The floor cuffed the side of his pulsating skull with a thwack and the stench of tomatoes and baked dough instantly dried his throat. A ferocious cough seized his throat as he gagged on the floor. " _Ow_ , what the-"

"Nice going, Clint," Tony's smug voice chortled.

"Wait, isn't that- Peter?" a bulky figure jogged into Peter's blurry vision. His glasses had flown somewhere. "Peter! Let me help you up." Peter habitually accepted the outstretched hand and practically flew to his feet as he was pulled up. What a muscle head. "Are you okay?" What a nice muscle head.

Squinting up, he gaped as he was met with a familiar handsome face. What was the guy's name again? It was Adonis, the one who had kept pestering him about philosophy club. "Oh. What's- who are you? Your name? I know you." _Wonderful performance, Parker._ Clint was already back on his feet, dusting himself off.

"Steve," the blond supplied helpfully. "We're having an after midterm pizza party. Want some?" The stinging in his left arm and the churning in his stomach said no, but the vibrations of his phone said yes. He ignored the call and shut it off.

"Sure," his mouth spoke for him before his head thought about the consequences. He involuntarily flinched when he accidentally bumped his injured arm by knocking into Steve. "Ah, sorry." Peter had to fight the urge to run his arm under mind-numbingly cold water, opting to tug it closer to his chest. The stench of greasy pizza was strengthened tenfold upon walking into the classroom, but he had gotten used to it between entering the hall and sprawling onto the floor.

“Peter,” Mr. D nodded in his direction, seated on one of the alumni chairs and looking spectacularly out-of-place, what with his broad shoulders. He had a half-eaten slice of pizza in his hand. “Pizza?” In Peter’s peripheral vision, he saw Steve return with a greasy paper plate and a cup of soda.

“Yeah,” the brunet took the plate out of habit, “Thanks.” His stomach wasn’t quite wanting of food, but that wasn’t a surprise: hunger hadn’t been part of his bodily agenda for a while. A couple bites couldn’t hurt. “Is this a philosophy club pizza party?”  
Steve answered, patting the vacant chair beside him as a friendly invitation. He looked about as out-of-place as Mr. D, since his shoulders were just as wide. “Yeah. We’re like a family at this point. Three years of being in the same club does that to people, I guess.”

Natasha, who was seated on the AC (which was turned off at the moment) with Clint, interjected, “Three years of arguing does that to people, you mean.”

Clint snorted, choking a little on his pizza. The redheaded beauty looked pleased at the feedback. A boy with long brown hair, who Peter’s brain supplied as Bucky, swiveled around his seat beside Mr. D’s and said, “Man, you have no idea how awkward their first argument was. Stevey was trying so hard to be polite. I mean, he’s still polite, but you know what I mean. Tony was still a shit.”

“And _our_ first argument,” Sam, with his quirky tooth-gapped smile, was lounging on a seat near Steve’s, gesturing at Bucky, “It wasn’t even an argument, to be honest. We were in philosophy club and Buck was being so annoying. He was all, _Hey, Steve. What the hell is going on?_ Every. Minute. I don’t blame myself, but if I had to, I would still blame Bucky.”

“Sam, it’s because you say stupid shit like that that I argued with you,” replied Bucky. “Your arguing skills need so much work that I decided to help you, out of good will.”

“No, I remember you actually got angry,” Steve supplied. He was tapping his finger against the seat at this point, so Peter slid into the chair. It was rude to leave someone hanging. “You kept kicking Sam’s chair, since he was sitting right in front of you. And then you said something about long legs.”

“I said, _Could you move your seat up?_ And then Sammy said, _No._ And then I said I hated him.”

“And then you proceeded to be the best of pals for the next three years,” Clint ended, sighing dramatically and belching soon after a swig of Coke. “Love is an amazing thing.” Peter was watching the exchange, feeling like an outsider even though he was settled in the center of the room beside Steve. Perhaps that was what accentuated that feeling; anyhow, it wasn’t particularly a bad feeling, since no one seemed to notice him, but it was still awkward.

“What about you, Mr. D? Have you ever been in a stupid argument? I can’t imagine it,” Sam again. He seemed to share Peter’s respect for the man. “I can’t imagine you as a teenager. What did you _do_?” Peter wondered the same thing.

“Read Latin literature and study the Bible,” Tony’s ever-helpful voice piped up. “Join a fight club on the side, maybe? Play football?”

“No, none of that. I was in a choir, actually. Anyway, I’m sure I’ve had my fair share of stupid arguments; believe it or not, I was a kid once, too,” Mr. D said, rubbing his stubble thoughtfully. “I can’t think of any at the moment but,” he looked at Sam and nodded, “I’ll get back to you once I remember.”

“What about you, Pete? You remember any stupid moments?” Steve asked suddenly, turning to look at Peter. “This pizza party has somehow become a confessional gathering, I guess.”

Peter racked his mind in panic. Stupid moments? He had worked to forget all those, so he didn’t have any. He lied, “Uh. Um. There’s a lot, I guess. Too many to remember a single one.”

“You can’t escape! I won’t let you get away with that!” Tony called Peter out on his cop-out. “You can’t remember a single one? Not _one_ stupid moment?”

Some say the best lies are sprinkled with half-truths. That may be true, but there are some truths that hit ridiculously close to home. It’s better not to delve into those. “I got a concussion banging my head on a stop sign.”

Steve was considerate enough to look horrified instead of outright laughing (Natasha looked horrified too, but that was probably because Clint had ejected all his soggy pizza crust on her thighs), but everyone else was laughing. “But _how_?” Tony was flashing his white teeth in a wide grin.

“I didn’t stop.”

“Fantastic, we have another Tony,” Bucky groaned. “We don’t need another Tony.”

“I wasn’t looking straight while I was riding my skateboard,” Peter confessed, grinning as well. “I hit my head and sat there for an hour until my- my parents found me.”

“What were you looking at?” Steve asked, his blue eyes bright and handsome in a way that made Peter uncomfortable.

“I don’t remember,” he said, even though he did. Why would he remember something that wasn’t important? He had been looking at a crying man, sobbing on the sidewalk, cradling the phone in his hands to his heart. He remembered thinking, ‘What a pathetic man.’ Nobody else seemed to notice him either; rather, they seemed to actively avoid him. The pedestrians near him sped their gait and resolutely looked everywhere but at him. Peter had hit his head on the sign at the curb when he saw a couple kneel down beside the man, comforting him. He didn’t get to see if it had worked. _Not that you wondered, because you knew that they weren’t really nice. They were like you and the rest of the world, nice because it was nice, not because it was right._

That was true. Peter had a feeling that the couple was thinking, ‘Look at how nice we are! Look at us helping this man!’ He remembered getting close with a girl named Deborah because she was ‘nice’, but after talking with her for a while, he realized that she wasn’t. Not really, because he constantly set her up. Deep down, he had wanted her to fail. Deborah couldn’t say ‘no’, that was all. She wasn’t ‘nice’, and Peter knew for sure because she had agreed when he set up the trap (“You’re too nice, Deborah.” “Yeah, I’m too nice.”) People who called themselves nice weren’t nice. People who couldn’t say ‘no’ weren’t nice: they were weak (“Why don’t you say anything, then? You tell me how much you hate it.” “Because I’m not good at saying ‘no’. And I feel bad.”)

Peter stopped talking to her after he grew tired of her ‘niceness’. There was no reason to be close to someone that needed constant reassurance. After all, the game was over: he had proved her falsities and now there was nothing else in her that he needed. He supposed he hated frauds like those the worst because he was one of them. _And that’s why you need to reveal each and every one you see._

The pizza party ended at one, but he had stayed behind with Steve and Mr. D to clean up. Tony had some meeting to attend, so he left a bit early. Bucky said he would wait in the front for Steve, following Natasha and Clint’s quiet departure. Bruce, who was in the philosophy club as well, had apparently stopped by for a slice of pizza before disappearing because he had forgotten to clean up his lab. Sam had helped out at first, but was attracted by Bucky’s boisterous laughter and had yet to return.

“You can go,” Steve had said while they were rearranging the seats for Monday’s class. “We’re almost done.”

“I don’t have a ride, so I have time to help,” Peter had responded, busying himself by picking up discarded plates and cups. He had to stop and take a moment to press his nails into his palms every time the itch on his arm flared.

“I can give you a ride,” the boy offered, twisting his body to look at Peter once the last chair was placed snuggly beneath the table. “Just give me the directions and I can drive you.”

“You drive?”

“Yeah, I’m a junior,” Steve reached behind his head to rub the back of his neck, offering the brunet an excellent view of his biceps. It was unnatural, the way his muscles curled around his figure, but anyone who saw it would have to admit it was beautiful. Peter had a sneaking suspicion that a little steroids were involved- not that there was anything wrong with it, since a large majority of his _acquaintances_ smoked blunts and snorted crack.

The trouble he went through just to find a pack of Marlboros. It was incredible.

“Then, yes please,” Peter replied, slinking into the straps of his backpack and waiting by the door. “Thanks.”


	5. Steve, Weed Man, God, and Lillian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: First warning? Probably not to go motorcycling with a heavy backpack because it throws off the balance. My teacher broke her leg from an imbalance of her bike while turning, so be careful.  
> Anyway, I’m done with AP exams! Man, it’s truly been a while; it’s been so long, in fact, that I forgot what I wrote. But I didn’t want to reread what I wrote: partly because reading older writing is spiritually trying and partly because I didn’t want to relive the writing process. What if my writing style is worse than it was before? What if it’s just plain weird? What if I jump from one idea to the next, or I mention one thing as if I had talked about it extensively before when I really hadn’t? So I didn’t reread anything and I forged ahead like an idiot. Here I am!  
> Anyway, I’m going to college soon (which is crazy). That’s a thing.

“You drive a _motorcycle_?” Peter asked incredulously, stopping short as Steve fondly patted the sleek black vehicle. It was purring beneath his large hand.

“Yeah,” he replied, proudly, and grinned boyishly at the brunet’s raised eyebrows. “Pretty impressive, huh?”

“Well, yeah,” Peter conceded, shifting on foot to foot as he contemplated touching it. Damn the pain on his arm: a motorcycle was still cool. Instead, he tore his gaze from the rumbling bike and cocked his head towards the blond, “but I thought you’d drive…well. I thought you’d drive a _car_. You don’t drive bikes, you _ride_ bikes.”

“Her name is Peggy,” Steve said, his eyes twinkling as he tightened the straps of a thin backpack onto his shoulders. After the school had decided to distribute Macbook Airs in order to replace the bulkiness of binders, everyone started carrying smaller backpacks. Peter liked the change, but unfortunately, most of his teachers were adverse towards it and insisted on physical workbooks and print-outs. “Wanna go for a ride before heading home?”

“Okay,” he said, bewildered yet pleased at the offer, before asking, “Will I destroy Peggy with the weight of my backpack?” and dubiously gazing at the vehicle (because a motorcycle was cool as hell, but he’d prefer not to lose a limb during the process of riding it). “It’s pretty big. The teachers make us carry papers and stuff.”

“It’s alright,” the latter assured, climbing onto the bike and offering him the black helmet. “Just hang on and move with me. Helmet? I’ve only got one.”

“You should wear it,” Peter shook his head, strapping his bag tight against his back before climbing onto the passenger seat. His body slid down, practically molding onto Steve’s broad shoulders. It was a little weird, since they were both guys, but he dismissed it because _this was a motorcycle_. Offhandedly, he noted the pleasant scent of deodorant and freshly laundered clothing wafting into his nose. “You’re the driver; what if some bug gets in your eye without it?”

The side of Steve’s lip quirked before he stuck his head into the helmet, looking awfully fashionable and cool for a teenager wearing a simple white tee and a blue cotton jacket. Peter, in all his heterosexual glory, didn’t really know what to do with his arms as the motorcycle slowly exited the parking spot and onto the busy street. For a while, he loosely held onto the sides of the junior’s blue cotton jacket, but as they left the main street for a highway, their speed jumped from ‘leisurely’ to ‘definitely breaking a few traffic laws’. He quickly wrapped his lanky arms around the other boy’s abdomen and clung for dear life as the wind whipped through his hair. It rushed past his ears in a deafening roar as they weaved out in and out of traffic. Peter whooped in glee and felt the blond’s amusement through the vibrations of his back, tickling the cheek that was glued onto it.

He didn’t know where they were going since all the asphalt and concrete blurred into one huge blob of grey, while the green street signs faded into the emerald of the trees; he didn’t really care for it much, in all honesty. The abdominal muscles mapped out beneath his palm, shifting at each turn and constricting at each stop, was enough. At some point, Peter had even closed his eyes to revel in the warm sunlight heating his skin and, for a moment, the world and all its terrible expansion could be reduced to something more bearable: sensation.

Adrenaline was coursing through his veins, a fresh shot sparking throughout his body every time they leaned to the side while turning. His glasses were hanging off his face, digging into the bridge of his nose, and the bag felt a little precarious against his back, but it was worth it. Some car horns went off, maybe even a curse or two (though he couldn’t hear anything outside the strong rhythm of Steve’s fluttering heartbeat), and Peter tossed his manners to the wind as he flipped them off.

“Fuck off!” he yelled merrily, grinning before draping himself over the blond again. They shot out of the lane, barely making it before the light turned red, and another horn went off. Steve was hooting and Peter was still running his mouth off, “Fuck you, too!”

He didn’t know how long they’ve ridden- maybe thirty minutes or so- but they as they returned to the city, Steve asked him for the directions to his house.

“Where’s your apartment?” he asked after pushing up the glass barrier on the helmet.

Peter’s sense of direction, sorely lacking and almost embarrassing for someone who had lived in New York his whole life, made him say, “Just go to the park nearest to the 7 Eleven. The one with the big fountain?”

“You sure? I can just take you home.”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Today would be a nice day to enjoy the weather.”

So Steve rolled them to the sidewalk and said his good-byes, and Peter tried his hardest to hide the fact that his legs were a little shaky by standing as naturally stiff as possible. He watched as the blond disappeared into the traffic, chased out by the purr of the motorcycle, and sat nearby on a bench reasonably far away from the rest of the population, but not too far to suggest he was an outcast (because outcasts were usually singled out by homeless people for money and drugs). The boy sat there for a while, worn shoes scraping against the concrete ground and eyes roaming over all the pedestrians: people wearing tights walking their dogs, children playing tag, couples out on a picnic, and college students bent over their notebooks.

Peter watched one particular girl with luscious black hair scanning the crowd, impatient hand tapping a stick of charcoal against a sketchpad. Her hands, once a creamy brown, was smeared black. He suspected she was looking for a muse of some sort and briefly wondered what her sketchbook would look like.

‘Oops, eye contact,’ he chastised himself silently when his eyes met a man that had dirt and oil smeared on his unshaven cheeks. Gaze darting downwards, he fished out his phone and turned it on in order to look occupied; it was about time to return Felicia’s text anyhow.

‘fucking incredible,’ the luminescent screen read, decorated with multiple heart emojis. ‘wish u were here.’ Another heart emoji and a blurry photo of a golden hall with pure white table cloths that held food on a silver platter. There was an enormous crystal chandelier and the floor was a patterned marble.

The next photo was a selfie of her and Harry, linked at their waists. The blond was holding a glass of champagne. ‘never too early for drinks’ and another heart emoji.

‘wat r u doing rn? harry says ur probably sad af and he feels bad ur not here.’ They were still on the patio, embraced by the lush greenery of the trees standing in the background and the rays of sunlight. Harry was laughing and Felicia was sticking out her tongue.

‘peter peter peter peter.’

And it got harder and harder to read the letters on the screen as it visibly depicted Felicia slowly losing coherency (‘inevr even jnew jor fasri can fet’). She was definitely going to have a killer hangover.

‘Why are you one your phone if you’re at a party? Go have fun,’ he typed his reply on an iPhone several generations behind the most recent. Felicia offered (or rather, said that Harry offered) to buy him a new one, but Peter respectfully declined.

He pretended to be preoccupied as the homeless man he saw began to sidle over to him. The man plopped down on a seat right beside him and Peter had to swallow back a gag from the stench he brought with him. Weed. This guy stank of it.

The man didn’t say anything, occasionally scratching the back of his neck with blunt fingernails. Peter could feel his stare burrowing into the side of his head and his good mood diminished. Now, he was left only with a nervous tick in his leg and an impenetrable awkwardness floating in the air. He didn’t know what to do, so he continued texting Felicia and feigning extreme concentration while doing it.

‘There’s a guy sitting next to me and he smells so bad. Like he drowned himself in weed and then resurrected himself with more weed. I can feel him looking at me what the hell do I do.’ He pressed send and continued another text box.

‘Shit this is so awkward. You’d think I’d be better at dealing with this since I live in NY, but apparently not. My nose is about to fall off and I think my eyes are stinging. Holy shit, this guy STINKS.’ He was in the middle of typing another one when the man suddenly spoke.

“That your girlfriend?” he asked in a slightly nasally yet gravelly voice. “Boy, that your girlfriend?”

Peter was typing gibberish at this point, but his eyes never left the dimness of his screen, “No, just a friend.”

“What you talking about?” the man continued, and scooted closer to him. Dammit. “That’s a lot of fingers; what you discussing, my friend?”

“The presidential election,” the lie slipped out of his mouth before he could even comprehend it. Just keep typing; just keep typing. His fingers were starting to press multiple keys at once, and the throb on his left arm was returning. He wondered briefly if it was the result of the man he dubbed Weed Man.

“Oh, the presidential election. I know that, I heard o’ that,” Weed Man nodded sagely, “That’s some very smart stuff you discussing, my friend. What’s your name, smart friend?”

For fucks sake, “Steve,” he replied curtly. Typing. Throbbing. His nose was practically numb and throat was starting to burn just breathing the latter’s awful odor. The thought sent his stomach curdling.

“Steve? You look like a Steve-- Steve is a strong name. You got a girlfriend, Steve? Bet a good-looking boy like you got a girlfriend.”

“No, I don’t.”

“No? You’ll find one, then. There’s someone out there looking for a guy just like you, Steve. Good ol’ Steve. I like that name-- that’s a good name. My name’s Mike, but you can call me Brody.”

“Okay.” Peter deleted everything he typed and finally pocketed his phone. He didn’t want to spend another moment near Weed Man (or Mike-Brody), so he stood up with his bag in tow and prepared to leave.

“Stevey, you got any change for a nice guy like myself to get some food? Even a dime would help,” the man asked. Peter reigned in a sigh. “I been nice and civilized about it, ain’t I?”

“Sorry, I don’t carry cash,” which, alright, was an outright lie. Who in New York _didn’t_ carry cash? Apparently Peter.

He sped away towards the opposite side of the park to sound of the man mourning humanity, “That makes me so sad. See that? That makes me sad! Nobody’s nice to me no more; nobody cares about little old Brody, not enough to give a dime.”

 

Relocating to another bench did his nerves some good and he sat there for a while, wondering what the hell he was doing in a park, alone, with nothing to do. He opted to rifling through his bag until it produced a sizable knot of headphones and a pack of cigarettes. Without bothering to untangle the wires, he plugged it into his phone and played whatever was on shuffle. Chopin. Amy Winehouse. The Maccabees. Chopin again.

The lighter took several tries to work, but a flame sputtered to life and he placed it beneath the end of the cigarette butt, sucking in and pausing for it to catch. Smoke billowed out of his mouth when he exhaled and, for a couple seconds, a pleasant lightheadedness rippled through his head. His eyelids fluttered a little since he wasn’t accustomed to the buzz yet, and the fact that his sight blurred made him seek the comfort of vision.

Arguably, Peter knew better than to smoke out in the open. Not necessarily because _he_ had anything to lose, but because there were children in these parks and their parents were awfully defensive of them. He could only partially understand, though, because they lived in _New York_ ; here, people smoked pot out in the open. Apparently, second-hand smoke is a far more pressing issue than the homeless people lined up at the side of expensive buildings snorting coke off of each other’s grimy hands.

‘City children,’ he mused, as if he knew what he was talking about, thinking back to his own neighborhood as his cigarette subtly glowed between his fingertips. He wondered, reveling in his fantastic nicotine high, what the kids here would think about owning a backyard. What would they think about a house, not an apartment? the sight of stars in the night sky instead of airplane lights? But he was in a good mood and everything was alright.

A white Frisbee descended at his feet, lightly knocking into his worn sneakers before halting to a stop. Peter looked around for the owner until he had eye contact with a group of college kids—and he knew they were college kids because they had that look about them—waving their arms at him.

“Hey, sorry. Can we—” one of them, with swarthy skin and shaved hair, gestured at the Frisbee. He was doing that weird half-jog-half-walk toward Peter that people do when they’re too far but someone is holding the door open for them.

Peter would have replied if not for the cigarette hanging from his lips but nodded to make up for it. His neck cracked but it was a refreshing sort of crack, and he tossed the Frisbee.

He didn’t want to go back home—his legs were numb and it felt good to walk around for once. The sky had changed from the bright blue to a pastel-purplish hue, and Peter took to roaming around the streets. People passed by in blurred pairs, sound that approached and left. He started thinking about Felicia and what she’s doing. Still drunk, probably. And then he started thinking about Harry, who was damn insane because the only memory he really had of him was him jerking off in the tub: talk about life-changing. Harry and his daddy issues and his alcoholism and his money, and Felicia, who wasn’t really as smart as she said she was because she stuck around Harry anyway. Harry, who knew Felicia, who knew Harry more. Harry, who could do anything he wanted because nobody had a rope long enough to drag him down. Harry, who knew he could jerk it in a goddamn tub because he knew that Peter wouldn’t do anything about it, and even if he did, it wouldn’t have mattered because it’s a Parker against an Osborn. Man was not created equal.

‘Rich people and their issues,’ Peter thought to himself, aimlessly turning corners and crossing streets like he knew what he was doing. ‘Rich people and their money and their issues.’

The thing about Peter was that he had so much time doing nothing, and he wanted to do nothing, that he thought about everything. The issue with people like Peter is that they’re so self-centered and self-conscious that they dig holes in their holes. The shovel never breaks and they just keep digging until they die, and they die knowing they’re just as stupid and useless as the people they had once judged.

* * *

 

**Junior Year**

In the summer of his sophomore year, nearly the beginning of his junior year, Uncle Ben died.

The thing about death—at least, for Peter, who was the epitome of normalcy and, therefore, probably applied to most of humanity—is that it’s never as up-close-and-personal as it is in the movies. Family members don’t die in flashes of great fires or explosions that devour buildings. There’s no grand shootout or collateral damage that changes someone so dramatically for the better. They don’t die in front of you, telling you words of wisdom while clutching dramatically at their bleeding stomachs. Death isn’t like the movies, where you’re angry at the betrayal of death and accidents: it’s more like emptiness and disbelief, and you spend more time looking at the coffin than you do thinking about your memories.

He didn’t even remember the last words Uncle Ben had said to him—that was how insignificant it was. Maybe it was a chipper ‘good morning’. Maybe there were no words, just a pat on the shoulder as Peter slept in. The thing about death is that it’s not the last words you end up remembering: it’s the day. You remember how the world began and ended. You remember the last interaction and you wonder if that moment, if that small forgettable moment, was _truly_ the last. Shouldn’t death be more monumental? Shouldn’t it be life-changing and unforgettable? Maybe there was a moment he forgot. Maybe there was a warning he had missed. Maybe there was something out-of-place within that day, within that moment, that Peter had missed and _that_ was why Uncle Ben was dead.

People die from afar, in an accident you don’t see coming. They die through a phone call that tells you, “Come home, Pete. Come home.” They die when the coffin is lowered down a ditch that houses maggots and worms, and not before, because you think, ‘Maybe he’ll wake up. Maybe if I stand beside him long enough, he’ll open his eyes and shout, ‘Surprise! It was a prank!’’ They die when the first pile of dirt is thrown above the wooden coffin. They die when you wake up in the morning and see an empty space where they might have been if they were alive.

That junior year, Peter learned that Death is the hand on his shoulder as Felicia said, “I’m sorry, Pete. I’m so sorry,” because, suddenly, Death is real. Suddenly, Aunt May was crying on his shoulder, muffling her tears through the linen of his shirt, and he’s crying, too, even though he thought he should be strong. He cried as Aunt May, in the supposed safety of his shoulder, said, “It’s okay to cry, Peter. It’s okay, we have each other and we’ll get through this. We’ll get through it, like we always have.”

The weather had never abided to Peter’s mood, so it was a sunny day when the coffin descended. It was sunny and hot and sticky and uncomfortable and he didn’t have enough energy to withstand the heat and the sadness that flowed like lukewarm water across the air. It wasn’t even like he could blame the drunkard who ran Uncle Ben over because he was dead, too, and his funeral was going on just a few grave plots away. That moment when Peter realized that the drunkard’s family was mourning, too, reinforced the idea that death wasn’t a punishment—well, not for the dead, at least: it was escape. There are worse things than death and Peter wished the guy was alive just so that he could hurt him—not for justice, because what he would be doing wouldn’t be justice, but come on: justice is just a fancier word for revenge. There are worse things than death, and Peter knew he shouldn’t hate a dead person as much as he did, but he did and he wanted said dead person punished. He wanted revenge because what that man did was theft, theft of a life that belonged to neither him nor Peter, and Peter hated thieves as much as he hated liars.

 

_Peter didn’t know where he was, but Uncle Ben was in front of him, alive and well. His dark eyes looked so sad and there were tortured sobs despite the lack of movement in his lips. His soul—and Peter didn’t know how he knew it was his soul, but he somehow knew—was torn and broken, like papers ripped to pieces and glass shattered to dust. There was a look on his face, a sound of his shuddering breath, as there was a flash of light and then none at all._

_"May," Uncle Ben said, his face fearful and younger than Peter remembered, because he didn't want to die. His glazed eyes, his slurred speech, the loosening crease on his brow, they shrieked what Uncle Ben couldn't. "I don't want to die," they said. "Please, please-" Because Uncle Ben was merely a man. "I don't want to die." Merely a man forced to act like a hero in front of his pathetic nephew, "May." And then his weak pulse ceased, the silence crashing in like a downpour and leaving the broken remnants of Peter's life in its wake. Silence, because the man who killed Uncle Ben was cold too, his ragdoll body tossed out of the windshield of his truck._

_Peter screamed. Screamed so loud until his voice cracked and his lungs burned because he was torn between anguish and fury. Between mourning and the urge to kill because Uncle Ben didn't deserve to die. Peter did. Peter was the one who wanted it, not his uncle. Peter was the one who dreamed about it at night and woke up exhausted, not from the dream itself but from waking up. Uncle Ben was the one who woke up every morning, excited to tackle the day because every day was a new adventure._

_So Peter screamed, holding a corpse against his own heartbeat as if it could transfer from him to his uncle. "Please," and he wasn't quite sure what he was asking for: life or death. The sound of sirens was drowned out by his agony, a torrent of unknown emotion that bled from one to another. "Please." Twice he had begged, and twice he had been denied. Uncle Ben was still dead, but what was he expecting?_

* * *

 

At the start of junior year, he spent the first couple weeks after Uncle Ben’s death dithering around, contemplating reopening the scars on his wrist, until he tried to kill himself—it wasn’t a suicide attempt.

He was at his tennis lesson, within a large brown building with tinted glass for front doors, preparing for the spring tryouts. He asked the instructor, David, if he could go to the bathroom. David said “sure” and Peter left the courts, unnoticed by the six other students he practiced with and the three assistance teachers he rarely saw, until he realized no one was at the front desk. No one was sitting on the plush chairs near the windows, which was rare, considering that moms love watching their kids do things. No one was there and Peter had his phone in his pocket and he thought, ‘Fuck it.’

He strolled straight out the door, peered left and right to make sure nobody was in the parking lot, and walked onto the concrete with a skip in his step; he had never felt happier. His heart was pounding so lightly against his chest, fluttering like he had a crush, and it was the happiest he had been in a long time. Whatever happiness was, whether it was real or not, Peter thought, ‘Fuck it’, because it didn’t matter then and it didn’t matter now.

Sweat was running down his back because it was a bit hot, but he was grinning and ecstatic at the thought of the lake. He didn’t think about how cool it would be against his skin or how it would choke him to death: he just thought, ‘I’m going to jump the fucking fence and I’m going to go to the lake.’ So he walked out to the road, which was dark beneath the shade of the towering trees, and veered off to the side where the lake was blocked off by the fucking fence. He jumped the fucking fence and waded out into the lake, bobbing as he went deeper and deeper down until it was above his head. He released all the air in his lungs in a great push and waited as he sank.

His chest started hurting, a throbbing sort of hurt, and he started thrashing around as panic filled his head and water filled his throat. It hurt and he was scared because there was no copping out: the back of his shirt was caught on one of the branches that decorated the rocky shore of the lake. He considered, while flailing his arms around, that this was meant to be: God had heard his declaration of ‘fucking it’ and He responded with a loving ‘Fuck you’ in return. Peter was panicking, but maybe God was up there, sitting in high chair of morals and better-than-thou-ness, saying, ‘Yeah, you’re going to die, but it won’t be that bad.’ What a pretentious dick.

And then Peter woke up coughing on the side of the road with David pumping his chest and pushing air into his lungs. Fucking David.

“The fuck is wrong with you. What the _fuck_ is wrong with you,” David was hugging him against his chest and Peter was sobbing against the man’s sweaty shirt without meaning to. “What were you thinking? God, what were you thinking? God. God.” Then again, since when did Peter ever do things he meant to?

He had a gash on the inside of his thigh from when David hauled him over the fence and bruises on his chest from when David pushed his weight against his ribcage. They walked back to the club—well, it was more like Peter was being dragged, since he had trouble coordinating his limbs—where the man dried Peter’s hair with one of the musty towels from the storage closet of the club. Peter was sitting on one of the plushy chairs in front of the windows and he could see the other students playing and laughing and running on the other side of the glass: they didn’t even know Peter was watching. Maybe that was why moms liked to sit on these plushy chairs and look down at their kids playing: they’re like God. They’re untouchable because the glass is thick and tinted on one side.

“You tried to kill yourself,” David was muttering. Half his body was wet and dripping: he must have waded out into the water after Peter. “You tried to kill yourself, you damned kid. God. What were you thinking? You almost died.”

Peter didn’t say anything and let himself be coddled. He let David drive him home, which was a little awkward since Sharon, his wife, was in the front seat. She didn’t understand why Peter was wet, which Peter was thankful for, so he just told her that he “had a problem with the sink in the bathroom—isn’t that crazy? You wouldn’t believe how volatile sinks are, man, they’re just one step away from world domination.”

When David pulled up in front of his apartment, Peter knocked on the window of the car before leaving and asked his instructor not to tell. (“You know what I mean,” Peter had said, his throat sore from rambling and coughing out water.)

“Fuck. _Fuck_. I won’t, but…don’t come back until you’re better. Until this is all fixed.” As if _this_ —whatever “this” entailed—needed to be fixed. There was nothing to fix: something without motive can neither be understood nor fixed. “God, Peter. Why didn’t you say anything?”

‘There was nothing to say,’ Peter wanted to reply. He didn’t, of course, and nodded goodbye as David’s car disappeared into the oncoming traffic. Aunt May wasn’t home yet, so he just went straight to the shower and then to bed. He didn’t tell her anything, and she wouldn’t have known if David hadn’t gone out of his way to reject him from coming to the lesson the next week. David stood in front of the club’s doors, arms crossed and facial features heavy: it was intimidating as hell and Peter had a sinking feeling he knew what was going to happen before it even happened.

“You haven’t told her. I told you to tell her. What…what is going _on_ , Pete? You weren’t like this before,” David wouldn’t let him in and Aunt May was still in the car, sticking her head out and asking what was wrong. “I told you not to come back until you were better.”

“I did tell her,” Peter lied, his heart pounding heavily. He was so afraid, he thought he might faint right there. “I swear. Just let me in. Let me play—she said I could.”

“No. You didn’t tell her, did you? You’re lying to me.” And David started for the car, steamrolling past Peter like a storm, and Peter followed helplessly. “I’m going to tell her, if you’re not.”

“Please, please,” Peter was begging, and he felt like the boy he was in middle school. He grabbed on to David’s arm and tugged weakly in a semblance of respect, because it would be too obvious if he yanked at it. His head was so light he thought he might vomit. “I’ll do it, please don’t tell her. Please don’t tell my Aunt May. David. David, _please._ ” And Peter kept repeating the name like a prayer, but God doesn’t exist, like happiness doesn’t exist, like moms don’t exist, so David told her.

Aunt May just stared, sightless and silent, and she told Peter to get in the car. Peter couldn’t move, so David opened the door for him and nudged him inside. He had the gall to look apologetic, the bastard, and Aunt May drove away stiffly. Peter thought he might die from a heart attack. He _wanted_ to die, at that moment: he wanted to switch places with Uncle Ben.

The car ride was silent until they were stopped at a red light and Aunt May finally asked, “Why?” Her voice sounded like thunder against the silence, though it was, in reality, just a whisper.

Peter replied, “I didn’t mean to.”

“ _Why_ , Peter?”

“I got out myself, Aunt May. I realized how stupid I was being and I got out myself. I was wet, so I had to tell David what happened, but he just misunderstood what happened. That’s all. It wasn’t a big deal. I’m better now, I swear.

“Don’t take me to a therapist or anything. Please. I’m better now.” As if he was broken. But he wasn’t broken—he was just tired. And he was allowed to feel tired every now and then, wasn’t he?

Aunt May pulled up into their parking spot and turned her head towards him. Her make-up was running as tears dripped down her cheeks. Peter didn’t remember the last time he saw her face so close. “Okay, Peter. I won’t. But _why_?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? Why did he do what he did? What triggered it?

The thing with Peter was that there was no answer. He saw an opportunity and he took it. He never thought about ‘committing suicide’, so what he did wasn’t ‘attempted suicide’, it was ‘seizing the moment’. He didn’t regret it, even though his chest still hurt and the inside of his thigh ached if he moved too quickly. There was no ‘why’ for Peter.

They left the car, Aunt May slapped him hard across the face and collapsed against him, pinning him to the hot metal of the car. Peter was conflicted: was he supposed to be angry that he was slapped? or sad? He had never been slapped before and his eyes stung with tears. Nonetheless, his heart was lighter because, if Aunt May said she wouldn’t take him to a therapist, then she wouldn’t. Because Aunt May wasn’t like the others.

A week later, Peter was proven wrong when Aunt May said she was taking him somewhere. He had asked where, and she didn’t reply. She just stared at the road, and that was when Peter realized that even _she_ was a liar. There was no exception to the rule that adults lied and Peter had been betrayed yet again. The third time’s the charm. Then again, he had always had trouble learning from his mistakes.

“You said you weren’t. You said you weren’t going to take me to a therapist—I _told_ you I was better. I told you it didn’t mean anything.”

“People don’t attempt suicide—“ That word. _Suicide_. Taboo. “—for no reason, Peter. People don’t _do_ that. This is to help you. I want to help you, Peter. Let me help. Please.”

* * *

 

At the start of the winter of his junior year, Peter went to a therapist every Friday because his aunt said “please” and he didn’t want to be like those adults that ignored the word “please” as if it had no value. He wouldn’t have cared if it was anyone else, but this was Aunt May: the last relative he had. So he relented.

The building looked like a big white Lego block with a stripe of light blue running around the top. The inside had pastel yellow walls, meticulously organized blue chairs, a fluorescent fish tank, and a beige front desk. The floors were covered with a dark mat.

“Hi, Peter. My name’s Dr. Kim, but you can just call me Lillian. I’m here to help you.” Peter was in a room with a window and curtains. He was seated on a plush chair—always plush—and he was kicking his feet against the carpet with a single thought in his head: lie. Lillian was a short, skinny, Korean woman. She had pouty pink lips and a short tongue that made the end of every consonant sound odd.

Peter smiled, because he knew how to deal with therapists. “Hello, Lillian.”

“I asked your aunt to leave because I wanted to get to know you better. I wanted it to be just us: is that alright with you?” _I aske’ your aun’ to leave because I wante’ to ge’ to know you bette’. I wante’ it to be jus’ us: is tha’ alrigh’ with you?_

“Of course, Lillian.”

“Okay,” she settled down into the chair across from him. Her mahogany desk had a clipboard on it, and her desktop was opened to an Excel spreadsheet. Here, people were just data. “Tell me about yourself, Peter. What do you like to do? Do you have any hobbies?”

“Oh, sure,” he replied, grinning. “I’m just like any other teenager, I guess. I like eating. Sleeping. Playing video games.” He laughed and Lillian returned a smile to him.

“Any other teenager wouldn’t want to commit suicide, Peter.” _Fuck you._

“See, I think that’s a misconception,” Peter began, leaning forward against his knees. “It wasn’t like that. It was a spur of the moment kind of thing, you know? I’m not suicidal.”

“Peter…I think you’re in denial. I can’t help you if you’re not willing to help yourself.” _Fuck you._

He paused, leaning back and got himself comfortable in his seat. He stopped smiling, because this was where he had to look completely honest. “You’re right. I _do_ want to get better.” He rubbed his hands over his face, knocking his glasses around a bit. “It’s just weird, I guess. I’ve never been to a therapist before.”

“Oh, Peter,” she looked at him sadly. “I know. I’m sorry. We can always take it slower. I’m not here to make you uncomfortable—I’m here to help. You talk to me, you know? That’s all this is: no reason to stress or worry.”

Pause. “Thank you,” and he looked straight into her eyes. “I’ll try.”

Lillian nodded and her face was a mask of kind smiles. “So, you like to sleep, eat, play video games…any sports? I heard from your aunt that you play tennis.”

“Oh, yeah. I’m on the team,” he preened, fighting against the need to go home and sleep. “It’s my third year.” He rummaged his thoughts for more things to say, because the thing about therapists was that the more he spoke, the less they pried. “I’m not on Varsity yet, but I hope to get there by my senior year. Which is a ways away, I guess, but I’m practicing hard.”

“That’s good, Peter. That’s good. Sports is a good way to release stress.”

“Yeah. I have a love-hate relationship with tennis, though, because it’s always such a chore to start exercising, but once I get into it, I love it.”

“Yeah, that’s true for me, too. I’m trying to jog every morning, but, as you said, it’s hard to start.”

“Oh, _I_ used to jog after school...” Which was a lie, but their hour was up and Peter was glad to leave.

“I’ll see you next week, Peter.”

“Of course. I look forward to it.”

She gave him a booklet about dealing with stress, which Peter took with a smile. She said, “Highlight all of the methods you’ve tried out, Pete, okay? I’m going to check them next week.” And Peter replied, “Alright,” as he highlighted the three easiest methods directly in front of her: deep breathing, exercise, and talking. He wasn’t going to waste his time doing anything outside his schedule.

_Fuck you, Lillia’._


End file.
